To Be Or Not To Be?

I sat at my desk, contemplating the array of pharmaceuticals in front of me.  There was a syringe full of insulin, far more than the 15 Units I required. There was other medicine for my blood sugar, one for my heart, another for blood pressure.  There was aspirin and Vicodin, and a few Coumadin pinched from a relative's cabinet. Next to them was a fifth of cheap gin--no need to waste the Tangueray--and a jug of wine.

The idea of being or not being, as the case may be, was not a frightening one as it played across my mind. Visions of the after-life did not include the depths of Hell, merely greener pastures and buildings faced with opal and pearl.  I imagined music--the sweet strings of a harp, the moan of a saxophone, the chirp of a piccolo, the simple melody of a piano. Peace and sunshine, a gentle warm breeze. The white sand of a beach at midnight under a full moon and bouquets of blooms never seen before by mortals.

My mind flashed to the day-to-day. Never enough money, a job I barely tolerated at best. A body that would never satisfy me, no matter how much weight I lose, nor how fit I become. An aching tooth, painful muscles, blurred vision. There was never enough love to make me content. There was too much clutter in my old-fashioned house that I couldn't throw away. The question was no longer to be or not to be? but, why bother being?

I dumped out a few of each pill, lining them up according to size, making sure they were arranged in symetrical columns in agreement with my perfectionist nature. The syringes, one with insulin and one with air, lay next to them. Lastly I poured  three fingers of gin--no, four--and a tumbler of wine.  I took a long drink and refilled the glass.

A soft whine made me jump. My big old mutt had  put his heavy paw in my lap, then rested his chin on my knee. Another plaintive whine escaped him. His mellow brown eyes seemed to take in the sight of the meds on the table. He looked at them, then he looked right into my soul and gave a gentle "woof".

In that instant, from the eyes of a mongrel of dubious parentage, I saw true,  unconditional love. Eyes that didn't care if I was rich or poor, thin or fat, a red-head or grey-haired. They didn't care that I couldn't sing a note, or that I could screw up the drawing of a stick-man. He loved ME.  The answer to the question became, TO BE.

I tossed Rocky a piece of bologna, a Reese cup miniature and his favorite kind of rawhide. I hugged him until he tried to wriggle from my grasp, laughing and crying as he shook himself free,

Thanks, Mutt, for saving my life.