Considerations on the Death of a Dog. Jean Grenier

There was a time—I’m not sure how long it went on—when I lost interest. I simply forgot about him. I would walk around the garden under the pretext of waiting for the veterinarian who was coming to administer his shot, or go to the kitchen to eat, for my appetite was greater than usual, something a night spent half awake, half asleep was unable to fully explain. I could do as I pleased during this small lapse of time, which I knew to be merely an interlude, as if I had come to the surface to breathe the air that would keep me alive. Returning to my room, I would again fall into a deep sleep.

The dog’s suffering had surpassed whatever my emotions were able to bear. I had nothing left in reserve, I was running on empty. He was alive still, panting in a corner, his eyes half-closed. A short while ago, I was stunned to see him stand and walk toward me. I held his head as I stroked his nose with my free hand. He stood there for a long time, a very long time. I said nothing, and he remained motionless, his gaze directed at my own. There was nothing I could do for him. But he didn’t know this and I was tormented by the idea that he may have believed I possessed some unlimited power, a power whose effectiveness he had experienced in so many other circumstances.

He was about to leave me for good. Did he know how much I needed him? Not only his constant presence, his company during my walks and our dinners, but (and this is even stranger still) whenever we were separated from one another. At night I would think about him as I fell asleep, the way we do with a tutelary deity that helps us ward off fear. He was my connection with nature at large, whose savagery and immensity frightened me; through him I came to know only its serenity, the drowsy silences, the satisfactions, freed of anxiety or regret, the blanket of sunshine unfolding before our eyes, the water welling beneath our feet. He made me, in imitation of himself, wholly present to . . .

Returning to the house, where I would find him, I would grow impatient—the result of some natural contradiction—with the thought that I would have to take him out. I was in some ways his servant. There were times when I believed I had been freed of any obligation, although this was not true as far as he was concerned. It was a sacrifice, but one that was immediately repaid. I no longer had to think about anything, I allowed myself to be led.

I’m writing in the room where Taïaut died. He knew it well: several of our summers were spent here. Once in a while, at night, he would sleep on the rug. It was with a sense of joy that he returned to a place he knew so well. When we arrived, after a grueling three-day trip, he was so happy that, although prostrate with weakness until then, he stood up, walked around, and went to eat some grass in what had always been his corner. The end of his journey had arrived. And it was also the end of his life.

It seems that whenever we’re able to return to a place where we have lived before—especially where we have spent our vacations—something guards us against bad luck. We draw from the sky, the earth, and everything those great powers provide, resources they have held in reserve to protect us. But if our day is written in the Book, nothing will help. An enemy within, which we take with us wherever we go, battles furiously against our existence. For a moment, we think we have lost it along the way or hope that influences that were once favorable will get the upper hand. Things begin to improve, hope returns (did it ever cease?). And then the mechanism breaks and we’re lost forever.

It is said that we are invigorated when reunited with those we love. Upon our arrival, I had left Taïaut in the bedroom and gone to the kitchen, where our friend and hostess happened to be. The bedroom door had been left ajar. How great was our surprise when we saw him appear, although a short while ago he had barely been able to stand on his feet. He didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to be abandoned. I’m glad I decided at the last moment to bring him with us. The evening before we left, he had wanted to sleep in the bedroom, alongside the bed. The morning of our departure he had climbed into the car by himself. We weren’t deaf to his prayer.

Writing from the bedroom where he spent his final moments, I recall the custom, practiced in certain countries, which consists in closing the room where a member of the family has died. Things are left exactly as they are. No one will enter that room again. I suppose that after a generation, the house, no matter how large, would no longer have space for the surviving members. But there is something about the custom that attracts me.

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