I’ve been wanting to write a bit about Bishop’s last day but haven’t been ready until now.

I think it was a good one. I was going to make him a ham sandwich for lunch, and then I remembered how much he loved butter and how much trouble he would get into at my parents’ house because he was always standing on his hind legs to reach the butter on the counter. So he got an entire stick of butter (which he pushed all over the floor, requiring extensive cleanup later!), along with an apple, a slice of deli ham, and half of my chicken noodle soup because I found myself unable to eat.

The sun was out, although the air was chilly, and we spent a long time in the field playing with his tennis ball and cuddling. I took a lot of photos, and then he got annoyed with me and I realized my time might be better spent loving on him. (The photos were taken with my camera, and unfortunately, because of computer issues, I am currently without software to download or edit them, so I can’t post any yet. But they’re good. Even the ones that are technically awful–blurred shots of a tail or paw–make me smile.) He rolled around in the red clay and grinned that huge doggy grin that I’d missed seeing, and I rubbed his chest, and we held hands, and I rested my cheek against his soft fur and thought about how much I love him.

And this happened: He went to drink out of the little drainage pond, like he often did when we were out in the field (preferring tannin-stained, milky-textured old rainwater to tap water in his bowl). I was watching him fondly when I noticed a shadow just under the grass near the bank. “Since when are there fish in this pond?” I thought. There’s no water source, only a ditch that fills after rainstorms, so although there are abundant frogs, I couldn’t imagine how a fish might have arrived. And then the dark shape undulated out from the bank, and I thought, “That’s a pretty darn big fish.” And then a triangular head darted toward Bishop’s nose and I hauled as hard as I could on the leash and screamed, both in fear for my dog and with delight at an unexpected snake sighting.

I don’t know whether it was a cottonmouth or a banded water snake; I had such a brief, dizzy look that my subsequent Internet research proved inconclusive. Its behavior — swimming toward Bishop rather than immediately fleeing — would be atypical of a banded water snake, though. It was decent-sized, easily as thick as my forearm, and regardless of whether it was packing venom, it could have delivered Bishop a nasty bite on the nose.

And so I think we were fortunate to have a cool day; the air temperature was in the mid-50s, the water colder, and the reptile evidently too sluggish to attack. Seeing it gave me a lift, a dose of adrenaline and something to research when we went back inside so I wasn’t spending the remaining time being sad about my dog.

Then we did some more snuggling, and I called my dad so he could say goodbye to Bishop (and I am told tears were shed in Colorado). Then my friend drove us to the vet. I thought I would have a sense of when he drew his last breath, but I didn’t. His head was in my lap, and his pupils dilated and then stopped moving. At some point the vet took her stethoscope away from his chest and looked up and nodded, and he was just…gone.
***
I had two experiences in the subsequent two days that I’m not going to write about in detail. But I will say that I had a very strong sense of Bishop’s presence both times, the feeling that he was letting me know he still exists, and he’s no longer in pain; he’s joyful and frolicking and chasing birds. And that assurance sent me into a euphoric state, almost a mania, for a few days before the grief hit again.

His footprints stayed etched in the soft red clay until we had another rainstorm.
***

I’ve gone back to the pond multiple times to look for the snake, of course, but I haven’t seen it again. I don’t believe I will. I believe it was part of the magic of Bishop’s last day.