Breathing wishes

It's a habit now, to check his breathing, to watch for the rise and fall of his barrel chest.

There are times -- early in the morning or groggy with just an hour's sleep -- I want the breathing to be gone, unobservable followed by my own sigh signifying that this is as it should be, the way we've all wanted it to be.

Peaceful.

Quiet.

There are other times when the lift of his rib cage makes me smile. The twitch of his paws, the way his nose sniffs the air even in his sleep. He is still here and filled with the responsibility of watching over us.

I am torn between my wishes for breath and unbreath.

How much easier it would be for him to make the decision. How much easier it would be for him to choose.

"Now," he'd say, and the breathing would stop, one full, long sigh pushing out the holding on.

In the end, it may happen this way.

Or it may not.

We may have to choose for him.

And it will be his breathing that I watch, first relaxed and calm as the sedative sets in.

Then the next injection when we will sigh goodbye and whisper encouragement and wishes for a gentle journey and watch, holding him and holding each other as his breath quivers and rattles and he lets go as we let go, soft fur between our fingers.

But now he breathes, asleep on his kitchen rug, his eyebrows flickering, his right paw curled as if to ask a question.