Caring (a short story)

Life for me was care-free when I was five. My parents line to think that they were fairly strict--and in comparison to others, they were. But when you're young, still learning about all the world has to offer, there's significantly more freedom to be had in a life of relative ignorance.

At five years of age, I decided to go walkabouts. We lived in a large property back then, in the middle of nowhere. The dog--our big, often scary rescue maremma, opted to come with me as a safeguard, as if recognising that I was making the trip on my own. It'd be an adventure.

One long walk down to a highway and back later, I heard the very frantic calling of my father. He was absolutely screaming my name. Evidently, I was in deep trouble, my impromptu trip having caused quite the stir for my poor parents. While I was endlessly told off for my recklessness, the dog was praised for his initiative.

At fifteen, still learning about the endless letdowns one could suffer as a teenager by so-called friends, I felt deserted and alone. My mother gave me my space. My feet took me to our dam bank--nothing dangerous, no poor thoughts, don't worry. I just needed time to start over. After all, how does a teenager process quite literally being left behind and forgotten about by people you were once close with?

There was but one consistent figure constantly nearby--a rescue maremma, named Willow. And as is the running theme in this piece, he quietly approached and sat himself beside me on the dam bank as if noticing that I was certainly not okay in the moment of my teenaged angst.

Cut to now, the inevitable happened. As a young adult, you cannot expect the things that held you up as a child or teen to continue to do so for the rest of your life. You have to step up and support the people you needed to support you.

"He's suffering a complication of cancer. It's likely he's ruptured his spleen."

The words were not only fatal to Willow, but to me as well.

With deep breaths, I came to terms with the diagnosis. It was treatable, yes, but already 13 years of age, the treatment would have been a taxing experience on a dog already in pain.

So I made the call.

Me, at 21 years old. Had you she'd be to do the same about half a decade ago, I wouldn't have even considered it. How dare you?

At five, I wouldn't have understood at all, because back then, life was care-free.

Making the call, the final call, was the price of caring.