He's Not Here
No noises, no interruptions, no ridiculous expressions, no stirring beside me while I write, no partner on my garden walk today. Just an echo of silence....
I swear I see him out of the corner of my eye standing at the door, waiting to go out...but no....
I see his ears cocked forward, alert, grinning, always grinning...a thousand photos at least and we never captured that look. Meant for only us, apparently, and that's just fine.
The cats find a tidbit from a tartar control dog bone abandoned with nonchalance beside his bed, which must go today, too. Then they hop up on the kitchen counter while my back was turned, a sure way to get negative attention. Vinnie and Theo try to stir things up. Everywhere I turn, I'm looking for him. The cats notice and try to place themselves there for me.
The phone is ringing downstairs, I'm certain I hear it. I race to grab it by the third ring, but it's not ringing. It's Loki the Trickster making me hear things, laughing at me and watching me hurry downstairs to answer the call...an excuse for one more look around, just in case Amos comes back while I am writing. But no...he's not here....
At what point did we get more dog beds than people beds? I'm sure the local rescue shelter will take them all. It will be hard to wash the covers, remake the beds, and load them in the back of the car. That's where Amos rode, and there’s another bed back there. I insist he would appreciate his own generous gift, knowing I've attached a human emotion to his act of charity. I make the call. I cry the entire time. Sob, sob, Amos Henry, sob, sniffle, blow, Amos, wipe, blow, sob, Amos. They'll gladly take the beds, leftover food, and flea and tick medicine. I pack most of his toys. I keep his pewter dog tag that says, "Babe Magnet." His special heart meds will go back to the hospital to be used by people who can't afford to keep their pet alive without these pilfered pills. Another good thing. None of it good enough to calm the ache. Not today anyway. It is an unsootheable soreness, a loneliness to the tenth power.
I'm back to closing all the doorwalls throughout the house prior to my shower again, too. Amos used to stand guard between me and the rest of the house when I showered, and I felt safe. Being at my most vulnerable then, I'd given over trust to my able pooch, reassured that he was on point, a furry, protective wall of honor. "Take back your power," he would declare, as I stood decidedly taller and more brave. Such an important lesson for life. Life without Amos...more than the opposite of empty. A negative fullness. A wish. A whisper. A bleak promise. A sliver of hope for tomorrow. Just not today. Day One without the big red doggie.
I nearly cancel my hair appointment, but why? Instead my neediness propels me there, knowing I can hug Ron too long before I let go. "I like this picture," I point to a twelve year old model in a style magazine. She's spiked up and platinum. "And this one's pretty cool, too." I indicate a straight, short style. "Hey, what about this one?" I ask, wrinkled brow studying yet another sassy do, auburn this time, and all wrong for me today. "Dear Dinah," Ron gently remarks as he leads me toward the scalding shampoo and neck massage I desperately need, "you have curly, sterling silver hair and you keep pointing to straight, colored hairdos. I can't bring your dog back...you just need a trim...."
I hurry away from home today. And now I've got to hurry back.
I want to dart around inside the house and all over the yard to search for evidence that he's disturbed something in my path, an obvious indicator of a visit, a knock on heaven’s door. Perhaps it's too soon. My timing is off. I wouldn't know, but I don't want to miss it.
I wonder what waking thoughts of mine weren't partially his?
I write in the den with his puppy picture on the wall as inspiration. All of my life I wanted time to sit and write, without interruption, for an entire day, French Mastiff at my feet, loyal, and my kittens napping in the corner chair. For a period of time, I got my wish.
We're supposed to get a clay paw print and a box of ashes soon. William wants to sit them on the dining room floor near his bed since he was never allowed up near the kitchen counter in a home where two cooks live. I always say, "C'mon in and have dinner with us. In our home, dog and cat hair is considered fiber!" Then, if you know it's a condiment, you go with it if you happen upon one...or two.
Watching me from his sentry post nearby while I tried new recipes in the kitchen was Amos' favorite kind of day, sampling scrumptious morsels and making faces for attention. But I know the truth. A box of ashes isn’t really Amos watching me. Still, when we leave the house each day, we will say what we always said. "Take care of the kitties, Amos, and take care of the house. We'll hurry straight home to you, sweet boy...."
They said it was a fluke. His heart just wasn’t big enough for his body. But they were wrong....
When I share with our veterinarian that when I die and go to heaven, I believe all the people and pets I've ever loved and lost will be there to greet me, a tender look comes over his face and he says, "Why, how could it hurt to believe?"
A gentle giant, a hangin' out partner
February 19, 2003 - August 6, 2008
NOTE FROM THE ARTIST: I am forever grateful to Amos for bringing his person into my life. During the course of working on his larger than lifesize canvas (pictured above), we discovered a scarey amount of things in common, and forged an immediate friendship. It was my distinct pleasure to paint Amos three times - the aforementioned large gallery stretched canvas, and two other Dog-a-Day pieces, one from June 2008 and the other from September 2007. His wonderful, expressive face is still with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment