I'll never forget my uncle's last words - "My life has been shit, I have done nothing, I own a Volvo. 'Death of a Salesman' is a fairy tale compared to my shit existence!"
If nothing else, my aunt was organized. She'd always say, "A place for everything, and everything in its place." Except for her. When my uncle left a room, she always cleaned up after him, then followed. And when he left the world, she cleaned up and died.
When my aunt died, I felt nothing. I tried as hard as I could to be sad. I mean I knew what it looked like, I'd seen it on television. I've seen neighborhood ladies carrying casseroles for some reason. I knew my aunt was dead, but all I could think about was how good I looked in a black suit. "My aunt should die more often," I thought. She didn't look bad either. Spruced up, and as usual, on time - waiting.
And as they lowered her into the ground, perhaps for the last time, all I could think was, "What about her gold teeth?" It was wrong, but there it was. "Shouldn't they halt the lowering and nab the gold from her teeth?" That would finance a few foster children or buy a "boogie van" in her honor. I looked over at my dad and he was thinking the same thing.
But when my dog died, my dad took it worse than the dog. He aged five years in two days. My dad just sat there in that big orange chair in a constant state of recline. And the TV Guide became his bible. Night after night he let Johnny's monologue wash over him like a soft summer rain. But it couldn't cleanse him. Binky had died.
When my dog died, my stepmom never stopped moving. She hooked enough rugs to carpet the earth. For comfort, she put on every appliance in the house. But the blender, the bun-warmer, the curling iron and the power drill didn't seem to help. So she put on "I Wish I was Eighteen Again" by George Burns, and hummed all the saddest parts, which is most of the song.
When they started locking the screen door, it was all over, except for the ending. In both their eyes, the horror of the day they "put Binky down."
Who could blame them? It had gotten pretty bad for rthe dog in the last stages. At the end he just hung there by the back door in the jolly jumper. By the end his joints couldn't take his own weight. "Bruce will you start up the 'ol Binker? And while you're at it, melt him some of that nice ice-cream for his dinner?" Ice cream was the only thing he could keep down near the end. So I'd start him up. He must have done 3,000 miles going nowhere. And when he died - no black suit or casserole, just his body in a purple blanket. His dish left half-empty or, as my aunt would have said, "half-full."