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| Jenni |
I walk behind the racing dogs, their tails sailing flags of
joy. We know our steps; when we come to the choice of going up or going
straight, they stop and turn, awaiting my wish. Up is through more woods, over
fallen trees, meeting a rather hidden trail leading to an entrance behind the pretty
church into the pastures that await. Ahead’s path brushes the small pond,
through the trees, opening into the fields where the tennis balls begin to fly.
Up or ahead, we wind up in the same place, fields littered with tennis balls
left and lost, waiting for next time. Our neighbors are wonderful.
I watch their joy as they run all out, and I find myself
jumping the years (I pray many, many years) before us; I feel myself starting already
to miss them.
Such a foolish sense, that nagging foreboding thought. These
three dogs who run so freely in front of me, eyes skyward searching for or
following flight of a yellow sphere, have no serious health problems of which I’m
aware (at least if I could get Mike to stop feeding them so much). Happy smiles
dim only to open mouths to grasp their toys. Whisper even smiles around the
ball he carries back to me.
But, truth is, Jenni is ten. How? How did that happen? This
little girl who came to ease Mike’s heart after Puppy Trey left us at 18 months
old, memory still raw of the loss of Mac the year before, that dog of a
lifetime who let me know you could bond with a dog and literally have them
anywhere with you. Jenni’s lovely golden markings, her sweet, sensitive eyes,
her quiet, shadowy presence continuously near Mike. Mike and Jenni placed in
third at their first competitive herding trial seven years ago and eventually
won one. This year’s case of pancreatitis so encumbered her, so frightened the humans
who love her; she’s not quite as spry, perhaps, but still, once out with the
boys or seeing stock, she flows along the ground. And, once inside, she
worships Mike, pining when he leaves, quietly joyous when he returns.
Next week, Whisper will be eight. EIGHT! The cutest puppy I have
ever seen who, from the moment he came home with me from the foothills of the
Carolina mountains, believed himself to be my boy, will be eight. His run doesn’t
flow as smoothly as Jenni’s or River’s; at six months old he had surgery
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Whisper
|
on his
shoulder, and his back legs almost, not quite, but almost bunny hop a bit. My
sweet, damaged, happy, worried beautiful boy. Even now he waits for my word to
bring him to my side. In a half-acre field, he can sniff out his very own,
particular tennis ball, THAT ball, the one he has used today. He knows more
tricks that both the other dogs combined. And here, with Mike and me (and Dr.
Manchild when he returns) he is happy and safe. The best thing we ever did for
him was to get him Puppy River. But, eight.
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River
|
And in January—just a few short weeks away—my River dog will
be five. That tiny puppy who so dreaded car rides for the sickness it made in his
tummy, that terrified baby who could not master any element of an agility
course unless the trainer and I picked him up and, literally, carried him over
or around—that sweet boy grew. . . . and grew. . . .. and grew. He loves the car now, accompanies
me to the barn, careful of the horses’ size, careful of their clopping feet.
But always with me. Even today he, Tripp, and I walked the path between
pastures and paddocks, River always to the side, ever close. And now, he tries
any obstacle I ask of him. So similar to my lovely, late Millie as any dog I
can imagine, his sweet, soft self has become friends with a couple of dogs that
accompany their owners to the barn. One little creature that might weigh five
pounds, white fluff, wags her whole self and comes to try to reach and sniff
his butt, that eternal canine greeting. River’s face turns patient, but when
she finishes, he wags
his tail, and with the other, younger dog, and little
white puff, squiggles to the other humans. “I’m cute, too!” He yearns for his people,
mainly me, not understanding why ever now that the car doesn’t make him sick he
has to stay home at all. I see that pure sweetness Millie had, that wanting to
make everything right, and I miss those lovely friends from our “Golden Age of
Dogs,” Mac and Millie, such beauty and grace, who had people stopping me in
stores: “You have those smart dogs.”
I wish to have again the dogs now gone—Princess, Benjamin,
Pluto, Mac, Millie, the ones from my childhood, the ones I cared for well and
not as well—I wish I had them now. Even as I long for the dogs who brought me
through some difficulties, who helped me raise a son, who kept me company and
gave companionship, I find myself feeling already the loss not yet experienced.
Too short—the lives of these amazing creatures is too short.
Part of knowing time’s passage is knowing loss as part of
life, grief best borne with others, and, as my life carries on, a looking
forward to recoup of loss when I feel I will see the people I love and my
beloved animals again. It is through such beliefs comes the phrase “the hope of
Heaven.” It is through such beliefs one learns to grab the moment now and live
it fully. “Take no thought of tomorrow.” Well, it’s a goal.
Even so, as I watch my lovely dogs play, gaze adoringly up
at me, my heart grips a bit, and already I start to miss these amazing animals.
Such is the gift of these dogs, and all the dogs I have had, that they mean so
much—that they ARE so much—that, always, I hope to have a furry presence in my
life. As deep as the pain at their loss, none would want me without a dog to
help me through. I can hope now, though, to have these three here with me for
years to come. Just the merest hint of the grieving for them brings me to
tears.
But, doggy eyes have no idea of my silent thoughts—and all
they want, now, is food, tennis balls, Mike and me, each other, a safe, happy
pack. I will put off the sadness and live as they do—right now is what matters.
My lovely, sweet, wonderful dogs, their presence proving
unconditional love exists. I do not deserve them. I hope I still can learn the
lessons they teach.
