I don’t believe it is necessarily true that being an only child is a lonely affair. If anything, all of your parent’s attention falls on you, and there’s even the feeling that you owe your company to them. Or maybe that’s just my experience.
I was always a lonesome kid. Of course I had (excellent) friends, but I lacked the urge to frequent group settings or have someone by my side, and often rejoiced at the prospect of spending the weekend all by myself. There’s an enormous difference between being alone, and feeling lonely.
It’s very likely that growing up with Boris satiated my social needs.
Boris was a greyhound my recently married parents adopted, a couple years prior to my birth. He was slender, his fur grey with black spots, and had a quiet and noble demeanor. He scarcely barked, and even fetched his orange tennis ball with measured excitement. I was always reminded of a second shadow whenever he followed me up and down.
With Boris by my side I never craved someone else’s company. Which made me indifferent to spending a rainy afternoon indoors; like I did on that day, when I was barely twelve years old.
I’d just finished an episode of Dragon Ball Z. On my way to refill my popcorn bowl I noticed Boris in the anteroom, lying on his huge dog bed. I sat on the ground to pet him.
It feels like I spent an eternity there, watching raindrops slide on the windows while I hummed some scattered melody; but it mustn't have been more than ten minutes.
Suddenly, Boris woke up and raised his head. Like a deer in the headlights, he looked directly at a spot on the nearest wall. It was completely empty.
“What’s wrong Boris? What do you see?”
My pet didn’t react to my voice. His attention remained cemented to that portion of the anteroom’s textured wall.
Somehow, probably due to my youth, it came to me that the only way to know what had imprisoned Boris’ stare was to go to his level, and emulate his actions. As an adult, I doubt that I would have allowed myself to do this, but back then I placed my head next to his.
This effort did last hours.
At first I’d get easily distracted, but I eventually disciplined my focus, anchoring it to the exact spot Boris looked at. Fatigue began to dull my sight much sooner than I expected, and the muscles around my eyes shook as the room inherited the marigolds of sundown. But none of it matter to me: I was set on synchronizing my perspective to that of my dog’s, as only kids and their pets can.
After a while, when I finally achieved it, it became clear to me what had troubled Boris.
It only required exhausting my vision, losing all control over it, to get in tune with that which the rigid human eye couldn’t help but overlook.
The image registered by my retina blended into a nebulous cloud. The wall’s texture, long horizontal lines, began to change. It sank as if something on the other side sucked on it.
In between the lines emerged the shape of a face, and a pair of hands. As if someone had pushed their palms and countenance into the wall while the cement was still wet.
Its placement made me think of a blind man who’d stumbled into a mirror, or a child pressed against a glass, or a mime patting an imaginary box.
Say what you want, but I don’t doubt for a second this is what Boris saw. I dried my cheeks as I squinted my eyes to interrupt this vision. The struggle to not blink had left my face tear soaked.
“Come boy” I said when I hugged my pet, which made it come back to reality. “I doubt that thing is evil.”
A few weeks after seeing that shape in the wall, Boris got his annual check up at the vet, where they spotted something odd about him. Our dog of twelve years was prescribed X rays and blood samples.
Boris had developed bone cancer in his left shoulder.
The animal doctor suggested immediate treatment, and after numerous weeks, intervened biology gave its verdict: Boris would survive the tumor, while also losing his left limb.
Remarkably, we were much more mortified than Boris himself by his new lameness. Once used to his new osseous structure, our pet continued being the same gentle giant we’d always known. Mom was right when she claimed dogs continue to be children, even as their bodies accept old age.
But even after his successful recovery, Boris kept stopping on his tracks whenever he crossed that corner in the anteroom. Once there, he’d turn towards the spot where both of us spotted that face in the wallpaper.
And in front of that wall he remained, motionless, until someone called him over.
And in front of that wall, since the afternoon in which I understood it was composed of more than just wood and concrete, I’d always feel an inexplicable cold rush, or the breathing of someone who was never there, or the creak of the floorboards at its feet.
Not a year had passed since Boris’ remission when he was diagnosed yet again with cancer. This time in his hip and tibia.
This was a much more severe illness, and would require an even more drastic chemotherapy… perhaps too potent for a dog his age. Greyhounds live up to fourteen years, and Boris had just turned thirteen.
While the vet was both unable and unwilling to suggest the most difficult decision, he couldn’t avoid stressing the loss in quality of life that awaited our pet.
Still, we decided to give the treatment a shot. After all, Boris’ content spirits and behaviour remained unchanged.
As did his habit of pausing in front of that wall, where we both sensed some kind of ominous presence.
To save Boris the experts resorted to surgical butchery: his whole back leg was removed, as well as a small portion of his hip. He’d need to learn how to limp with the help of a prosthetic.
Regardless: our pup remained with us, and we couldn’t be happier about it; nor could the dog. Even if not long after he also began to lose his eyesight.
But even then, an almost blind Boris kept stopping and staring at the same odd corner. As if his defective eyes could only detect whatever lived there.
Even in the most vital and lively of beings, there comes a time when the ailments of the body triumph… and merely wait for the soul to concede its battle against death.
I knew this point arrived on the day I took out Boris’ favourite ball, but he was only able to chase it once before letting go of it, whining and in pain. He laid on the floor while I went looking for his treats. His tail wagged faintly as I fed him the biscuits we once had to hide from his reach, on the highest kitchen counter.
I turned to that empty wall in the anteroom, and couldn’t help but imagine its inhabitant watching us… and judging me for my selfishness.
The efforts to preserve Boris weren’t for him, but for myself. The lonesome child feared being left alone.
Perhaps by coincidence I also had to take this step on my own, at barely fourteen years of age. My parents were travelling, but I insisted on doing this once and for all. I wanted to shorten my dog’s suffering.
The afternoon when Boris died was peaceful. A lady from the veterinary team came home and got everything ready. I spent the whole day besides my best friend, who remained unphased by the preparations. He seemed to know and accept what was about to happen.
I tried to ignore the process and focus solely on Boris. I watched his breathing, how he inhaled and exhaled, ever more slowly each time.
“He should fall asleep soon” announced the vet.
I pet his snout, as I looked directly into his blind eyes. I didn’t need to utter a word to wish him goodbye. His eyelids began closing, and his breaths began to dissipate like smoke in the wind.
Any moment now I would witness the arrival of an endless stillness.
But suddenly, Boris reopened his eyes and raised his head, with extraordinary vigor.
For the last time, the textured wall behind me had caught his attention. I didn’t need to turn around to know this.
I never took my eyes off of him, so I’m positive he was no longer breathing… and that the respiration I heard on my back came from something else, accompanied by that cold rush and the creak of the floorboards which had unsettled me for months.
And just like that, Boris concluded that final look, laid his head down, and allowed himself to die in the company of his family.
