Magic Left Turn

Today we have to put our dog to sleep. And go to our first ballroom dancing class.

When I get home around 3:30, Phil's truck is in the driveway. He has Fridays off, and usually he spends the whole day at his studio. But he’s home.

"Phil?" I call from inside the back door. No answer, so I hang up my coat and go on upstairs. He’s in our bedroom, changing.

"You iron these for me?" He holds out a pair of drier-smushed khakis.

"You're home early." I take the pants, hold them against my waist.

"Yeah, well. I hate this." He’s standing there in his white jockeys and a blue oxford.

I’m pretty sure he means having Desdemona put to sleep. Maybe he means the dancing. Or both. I’ve talked him into a six-week ballroom dancing class, because we’re going on a cruise for our twenty-fifth anniversary. He’s only doing it for me. We never dance together.

I sigh. When I'd come in the house I hadn't gone near the laundry room, where Desi sleeps all day on newspapers and towels. We put fresh down at night; she doesn't do much anymore except sleep, curled up like a mealyworm. Her back legs don't work right, haven't for three weeks, so she soils herself. Now I'll have to go in there to iron.

He reaches for his pants. “Well don’t do it if it’s a big deal.”

“I don’t mind.”

"Did you go say hello to her?"

"No. Not yet."

"Do you have something we can wrap around her?"

"I'll get something. What time did the vet say?"

"Four thirty."

"Oh. I guess I'd better get a move on." I go back downstairs.

Desdemona is lying where we left her that morning. The room has the acrid smell of urine; we keep the papers fresh, but it gets in her black fur, too. "Hey girl? How you doing? You doing okay?" I bend to pet her head, tickle the good spot over her ears. She looks at me with those brown eyes that have always been more human than animal. Those eyes aren't unhappy, just tired.

"I've gotta iron these pants, Desi. You know I hate doing this." I plug in the iron, put a towel on top of the drier. "You have a good day, girl?"

She lays her head back down on her front paws, breathes hard.

Two nights before, she'd almost died. It had been my fault. When I left for work that morning—I don't have to teach classes until eleven on Wednesdays—I'd let her out, even though it was snowing, a light sprinkling of big flakes. She loves to spend the day curled up in the sun on the driveway. The weather report promised it would clear and the temperature would rise.

Only it didn't. When I got home, after dark, it was freezing, and we had two inches on the ground. I called and called, but she didn't come. She never strayed from the yard any more, hadn't for years, so I thought: she's gone off to die. Maybe she's under the deck, dead already. I didn't want to see that, to find her that way, so I went in the house and started a fire.

When Phil got home at 6:30 I was sitting in my chair by the fire, the paper on my lap, waiting. He said, "How's old Desi doing," looked in the laundry room for her. "Where's Desi?"

"I couldn't find her."

"You couldn't find her?"

"Yeah. I let her out when I left . . . "

"You let her out?"

"Well, it was supposed to warm up."

"You and the damn weather channel." He headed for the front door. "So where'd you look?"

"I was so scared; I called and called . . . "

"You just called her? You didn’t go look?" He had his hand on the doorknob; he was glaring at me, blue eyes blazing.

"She didn’t bark or anything, so I figured she was, you know . . . . She never goes anywhere."

"Get me a flashlight. Please. I can’t believe you didn’t look for her, Lida."
I got the flashlight we keep plugged by the basement steps and gave it to him. I turned on the front porch light, went to the back door and turned that outside light on, too. I stood, arms crossed, and watched the flashlight beam in the snow for a few minutes. When it disappeared over the ridge behind the house I went back to the chair.

In about ten minutes I heard my name, faint but sharp: "Lida! Lida!" I ran to the back. Phil was trudging through the snow, Desi in his arms, the flashlight pointing at a weird angle toward the trees.

"Let me get my coat," I screamed.

"Just hold the damn door!"

I stood there; it was bitter cold.

"Get some goddamn towels. Fast! And a handful of food!"

He carried our dog in by the fire. I ran to the laundry room, threw a handful of towels at him on the way to the kitchen. "Where'd you find her?"

"Down at the creek, damnit. She fell down and couldn't get back up. Her back legs were in the water." He was rubbing her hind parts with the towels. "Give her that food, damnit. Hold it to her mouth. We've got to get her body temperature up. I can't believe she didn't freeze to death down there."

I cupped the dog food in my hand and held it to her face. She didn't bite. I rubbed her head, "Here girl, you gotta eat this."

"What in hell were you thinking, Lida? Why didn't you look for her?" He kept rubbing Desi's back legs. "She's not gonna make it. She's gonna die tonight, for sure. She must've been down there for hours."

Desi took a few chunks of the dry food, tried to chew; most of the brown crumbs dribbled out.

"Get her some water."

I set the food next to her head, went for her crockery dish by the back door, filled it with fresh water, brought it back. "Have a drink, girl. You need to drink some water."

She did live through the night. But she wasn't able to stand up any more; her back legs caved. And she hadn't eaten a bite since that night. At six Friday morning, when Phil nor I were both wide awake, when we were both lying there pretending, we made the decision: We'd have to put her to sleep.

We ride down the interstate not talking. Phil drives.

Desi is in the back of the station wagon, curled up in an old blue quilted spread I found at the bottom of the linen closet. She's quiet, but we know she's afraid because she almost never goes for a ride in the car anymore. She's always been a homebody. Over thirteen, her black muzzle whitened, she's not much more than silky black fur stretched over bones. In her prime she weighed more than sixty pounds; now, I doubt she weighs forty.

"What'll you remember about Desdemona?" I ask.

Phil shakes his head the slightest bit, stares at the road.

"I'll remember the day we got her at the SPCA. How we almost got that other dog, the one with one blue eye and one brown eye?"

"Yeah. That wild-looking dog, some crazy cross between a husky and a German Shepherd."

“Right. But that one was kinda scary. And Desi kept pawing your shoe, trying to get you to pet her some more.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’ll remember her chasing rocks, always bringing back the exact rock we threw.”

“Desdemona. The rock queen.” He smiles a bit. “Do you know where we turn?”

I shake my head. We've never used this vet.

"I'm going to turn here," he points at a side road up ahead, on the left. "Jed's taken me this way before."

"Are you sure?"

He puts the turn signal on, goes down the side road, and in only minutes we come to the Natural Bridge Veterinary Hospital. Phil parks, looks at me. "You thought I was gonna get us lost, didn’t you?"

I shrug. "Are you going in? What're we supposed to do?"

"Come on in with me," he says, opening his door.

"I'll stay with Desi." I get out my side, go to the rear of the station wagon, lift the back gate, and Desi looks up at me. Still she doesn't moan. I wish she'd complain, act sick.

I sit down beside her and stroke her bony head. I can feel the knot where she was hit by a car right after we got her. That night we took her to the emergency vet. She didn't chase cars after that.
Phil comes back, sits on the edge of the trunk with me. "I paid her. She says to wait out here, she's releasing a dog. We're next."

"She?"

"It's a lady vet."

"Oh. That's good." I think maybe it's good because maybe a woman will be more gentle. We both pet Desi. I'm holding her head in my hands. She looks at me, her eyes old, tired, but satisfied-looking. The whites of her eyes are yellowed somewhat, but I don't see any craziness. Wouldn’t her eyes look wild if she was suffering?

We sit like that until the doctor comes out. She's younger than we are, trim, business-like, with wire-rimmed glasses. She's dressed more like a pediatric nurse, in bright scrubs, with a stethoscope around her neck. "Here's what I like to do," she says, petting D., making little mouth noises to our dog while she talks. "I like to give a sedative first. It's easier on the dog, and really, easier for me."

We both nod. I realize I can't talk. My throat is tightening up.

"Then, when her breathing's slowed, when she's pretty sedated, I'll give her the drug. It stops her heart."

Again we nod.

"It's not painful. Any questions?" She looks from one of us to the other, still rubbing Desi's ears. This time we shake our heads. "How much does she weigh?"

"About forty pounds," I answer. "Maybe a little less." It's hard to speak.

"Okay. I'll be back with the injections, and a technician. She'll have to climb in behind your dog and hold her for me, but you can stay right where you are." She smiles, walks toward the clinic, turns back to us. "Oh. Mr. Martin. You said on the phone that you wanted us to dispose of the remains?"

"That's right."

"I just wanted to be sure." This time she goes into the back door.

We sit there and pet Desi. Phil's at her haunches. I still hold her head. My eyes start to water but I ignore it.

When the doctor comes back she introduces us to her assistant, Cheryl something, who crawls into the back of the station wagon. The two of them give one another directions. Desi doesn't mind this attention. She's always loved strangers.

"I'm going to give her the sedative now," the doctor says, and Phil and I are both talking to Desdemona in that quiet way parents soothe sick babies and wounded animals – "It's okay, girl; we're right here; you're a good girl, D." It's hard to say which of us is saying what; our mutual sounds are some ancient lament.

D. is peaceful, looking at me with her trusting eyes. We used to say that one of us could cut off her ear and she wouldn't hurt us.

The vet listens to her heart with the stethoscope, nods to the technician, says, "Now I'm going to administer the next shot."

She plunges the syringe. I pet Desi's head, talk to her: "You're a good girl, yes you are. You're the best." Phil is petting her neck. She looks at us both, breathes slowly, breathes slowly.

The vet listens. Looks from one of us to the other. "This has never happened before. I gave her enough for a hundred-pound dog." D.'s tired eyes never leave my face. "Cheryl, go get another syringe."

“Maybe,” I start, but Phil shakes his head no, not looking at me.
The technician crawls out around the doctor and Phil, double-steps back to the clinic.

"I swear, Mr. Martin, Mrs. Martin, this has never happened before."
We don't say anything. We just pet Desi.
Cheryl comes back, climbs in behind D. again, hands the new needle to the vet.

"Okay, I'm going to give her the shot."

"It's okay, girl. This won't hurt. You're a good girl," I croon, and she looks at me, and the life goes out of her eyes, just like that. I put her head down, dead weight; it's not Desi any more. She's gone.

I stand, cross my arms tight against my chest, and the vet and the technician go get a cot, about the size of those tiny cots they use in day-care centers.

"Do you want this quilt?" Cheryl asks Phil.

I shake my head no.

The two women lift the dog's sagging body onto the cot. I walk around the car to my door, open it, get in. "Thank you," I manage.

"Yes, thank you, Doctor," Phil calls as he's getting in the driver's side.

The whole twenty miles to the community college where I work we don’t say a word. I check my watch when we get there: five until six. Right on time. We get out and go inside; an enormous bald-headed man is in the gym, plus a man and a teenager shooting baskets. No other couples. We look at one another, hesitate at the opened door.

“Come in, come in, I’m Sam Pappas, the king of ballroom dancing,” the man booms at us. The basketball makes that steady thunk thunk on the gym floor.

“Are we early?” I ask. Behind me, Phil is whispering “Let’s get out of here.”

“No, no. You’re prompt. I pride myself on being prompt too. Come in and let me give you a list of steps.” He walks up, shakes Phil’s hand, drags him into the large cold room. He’s wearing soft black leather shoes and his step is light, like a woman’s. I follow, notice a boombox on a table against the wall; faint music is playing, too faint to make much headway with the basketball. “In the Mood,” I guess, straining to hear. He picks up papers from two stacks, one sheet pink, one blue, holds them out to us. “These are the steps we’ll work on tonight. I know over two hundred steps, but we’ll concentrate on these six.” He does a little cha-cha step in place; his smile is wide, practiced. I don’t look at Phil.

Eventually twelve more couples arrive. The basketball players leave. We line up in two facing rows, “boys and girls,” the instructor calls us, like in elementary school. Sam Pappas stands between, shows the Magic Left Turn with his back to the men, then turns around and demonstrates for the women.

“So what makes this magic?” a short blond woman asks.

“It’s the turn-glide in the middle,” Sam Pappas answers, holding his arms up as though he’s leading a partner, doing the step again with grace, cheerful and sure-footed as Lawrence Welk.

We stay in our rows and practice; Phil has trouble, looks at his feet, tries again. This is easy for me. I took Cotillion as a teenager back in Richmond.

When we practice together to “Tea for Two” Phil says, “Help me out here.” He’s rigid. I talk him through the steps––left foot forward, touch; turn-glide, touch; sidestep, touch––and we get it. We’re a little behind the music, but we get the step. Sam Pappas comes around. “Good, good. You’re both doing fine.” He pats Phil on the shoulder, grins, moves on.

“This guy’s a trip,” Phil says.

I nod. “He’s the king of ballroom dancing,” I whisper in my husband’s ear. We both smile.

We learn the Magic Right Turn, and Phil can do it, but when we put it all together he never makes the transition; his feet get confused when he tries to switch from left to right. “Goddamnit,” he hisses; “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” So we just keep on doing left. That’s okay with me. We get pretty good with it; when Sam Pappas puts on “It’s Almost Like Falling In Love” we finish the entire song without messing up.

“My calves hurt like hell,” Phil says when the music ends.

“How can you play two hours of tennis without your legs hurting, and only dance a half hour and complain?”

He shrugs, goes back to the men’s line to learn the next step.

We actually do fine with the waltz––Phil says he remembers it from somewhere, maybe his grandmother taught him when he was little, maybe he learned it in high school––and the rumba is easy for us. Fox Trot is so-so.

By the time we get to the Jitterbug, my favorite, Phil has had it. “This is crazy,” he says, hopping from one foot to the next. “It doesn’t make any sense. This can’t be right.”

Sam Pappas stops, works with Phil a while, but he’s still just jumping from one foot to the next, completely off the beat. “Next week,” Sam Pappas says. “I’ve never met a couple I couldn’t teach to dance.”

We walk into the freezing night air. Giant white flakes are falling now, just a few. I am glad I have not left Desi out in this. Phil takes my hand. His grip is firm, familiar.

We have gotten through this day, Phil and I. We have put our dog to sleep. We have learned the Magic Left Turn, the waltz, and the rumba. We can't go from Magic Left to Magic Right. And we can't do the Jitterbug together. No. I look up at the falling flakes. They are so beautiful, so clean. I am certain: we will never be able to do the Jitterbug together. But that’s okay. Three steps will work.