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Like a Puppy Pile - A Tale From Hankby Malcolm RiordanThere have been other times when she has cried and said things to me, snuggled in all close and warm. Her face buried wet and salty into mine. Damp soft sobs. Breathing. Murmuring words. I’ve never minded. In fact, I like it. That’s just how my Best Friend and I are. With fifteen years of togetherness, we know each other’s ways. But her cry is different this time, she’s not saying things, she’s holding me tighter. I’m not so good right now. It’s another day I just can’t care much about. I’m tired. This morning she washed my blanket, brought it with us on the car ride, then put it on this stainless steel table, settling me on top of it. This whole blanket thing - that’s different too. The rest is familiar. This is the room where we always wait for my Occasional Friend - the tough love guy - to come in and see me. He’s got little lights for looking in my eyes, a thermometer, and those shots. He always tries to make it seem like he and I are in this together and always keeps a steady, easy hand on me the whole time we're together. He always says I’m a good sport for my participation. Whatever. I like him ok. I just wait patiently 'till it’s over. But today as Best Friend and I wait for him, she’s crying and things seem different. Me, I got the “slows” bad; seems that’s just how it always is now. So this blanket is actually an ok deal. I’m concerned about Best Friend though. She’s crying and not saying anything. She seems alone with something. Me on my fresh washed blanket and the ‘we’re all in this together” Tough Love guy - he holds my leg and pushes the shot. Then he touches me that steady way he does, saying something about, “it’s the last nice thing we can do for you, Hank.” Hank. That’s my name. Best Friend’s arms are around me now, her warm wet face pressed in my ear. In a voice so quiet, so clear, she says to me, “thank you Hank, for everything.” Her simple, unexpected words hit Tough Love guy square. He crumples over me too. I’m barely holding on as a memory releases from my farthest, warmest past: this is like a puppy pile - all of us in this together. This sad, loving heap of breathing, helplessness and warmth.
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