Collecting Memories

As Chester's health declines, I find myself grabbing onto memories of him like I'm collecting rare coins.

Here's one:

In the morning, after he wakes me up at precisely 5:28 a.m. (yes, every damn morning on the dot), we make coffee together. Chester sits quietly by my side staring up at me with those eyes like amber gems, longing, mournful, and these days a bit glazed. While the coffee is brewing, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because it's Friday and I'm too tired to make anything else and my class is taking a field trip to the beach so a PBJ sandwich fits nicely into my backpack. Ann gets the other one just because I'm feeling extra special generous.

Chester LOVES bread. (On our second date, Ann and I went for a hike with Chester. He broke into my lunch in the car and ate half my fresh bagel before I snatched it away from him.) He even enjoys peanut butter. It's only of late, with the medication's side effects, that he also likes jelly. (On our walks, he'll now even eat orange peels, which, back in his youth, he'd never even consider edible.)

So, he's sitting next to me like a good Su Chef, doing this funny little repetitive move he's developed where he sits, then gets up for a nano second then sits back down quickly and forcefully. The effect sounds like he's stamping his feet as if to say, "Hey, have you forgotten I'm down here?"

I lay out the bread, generously spread on the peanut butter and then step away to get the jelly. "Don't touch those sandwiches," I warn him and he looks at me like the most innocent creature who ever evolved.

Then, while I'm rummaging through the fridge trying to find one of those tiny jelly jars my mom got us for Christmas (perfect stocking stuffers she thought, but one jar covers only two sandwiches), Chester gets up from his stomping position, walks over to his dog dish, which still holds his breakfast kibble, picks up one piece of dog food in his mouth, walks back over to the sandwiches and pa-tooey's the kibble onto the floor.

I swear I hear him say, "Shit. You're feeding me shit."

I laugh.

I walk the minature jar of jelly back over to the bread and peanut butter and commence with the final layer of boysenberry.

Disgusted, Chester picks up the lonely kibble he just spat onto the floor and precedes to crunch it loudly...I am not making this up...he crunches it with his lips turned up to make the noise of the one dry kibble sound as stale as WWI tack bread.

I swear I hear him say, "Shit. I'm a dying dog and this is shit you expect me to eat."