Missing the Here Dogs

 

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

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.

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.