Was it the babysitter's husband, or was
it some random neighbor? I don't remember who it was- I was five
years old and memories get jumbled. All I remember was that a person
my father's age was choking back sobs with his whole body shaking. He
was inconsolable, though the small group of adults in his midst tried
everything. I was helpless to watch this, feeling that it was
something I should not witness. Slowly the story revealed itself- his
dog was hit by a car and killed.
I have always been a cat person. Their
aloof nature and their detachment combined with just the right amount
of attention makes them the ideal pet. They can be silly, sweet, and
affectionate and they could be pissy when angered. They can be
consoling when they sensed your sadness. Fiercely independent, you
know that when they give you their time it is out of want and not
need. In so many ways they are the perfect pet.
My life changed 12 years ago when my
wife showed me a rescue puppy. It was a little runt. I have seen many
puppies in my days, but something that day made me say “ Is that
our dog?” He was tiny so right away he shared our bed with us. In
time, this became a challenge, as he grew to be a rather large dog.
Our night-time routine was that he hopped on to the bed, licked
Ann's face ( he loved the smell of her lip balm), licked my face,
then plopped heavily on Ann's legs. She chided him for pulling away
the covers, so he got up, turned around once or twice, and thumped
down on my legs. This was our routine, and it had us laughing and
wiping at our faces when he licked us, and though I was his second
choice- I was happy to have him draped on my legs. We half-heartedly
spoke of making a bed for him on the floor someday, but that someday
never happened. As he grew older, he would whine by the bedside until
I got up and lifted him on the bed(he was 75lbs). Somehow the act of
lifting him made him more grateful and he would immediately go about
trying to lick Ann's face.
He was an omnipresent dog. When we
watched TV, he would drape his long body across both of our laps.
When we discouraged this behavior, he would sit by the couch until we
were both distracted and sneak up onto our laps a paw at a time. If
you were in the house, he was with you. Not in an annoying way, mind
you- he was not an under-your-feet dog. If you were in the back yard,
he was with you, period. His perpetual hope was that the back yard
signaled dog fetch time. He only weighed 75 pounds, but his presence
was huge.
Just two days ago this hour, We found
ourselves digging his grave by flashlight. The long ride home from
the emergency clinic, my whole body was racked with sobs , my face
streaming tears. Ann kept asking me if I was ok to drive, even though
the front of my tee shirt was still wet with her tears. Sami was
bundled in the back seat for his final ride- we couldn't bear to put
him in the trunk. The necessity of burial was a welcome short-lived
relief. The sweat and toil of moving mounds of earth didn't last long
enough. I dug with vigor, hoping to postpone the grief even another
moment. Ann said it was deep enough, but I kept digging. When I
scooped up his still warm body to carry him to the grave, I hugged
him close. I still think about that hug and wish I would have done it
a bit longer. When he was covered, I didn't sense the finality. I
still don't. I wish I would.
So now I am afflicted with phantom dog
sensation. It is kind of like I imagine phantom limb sensation is-
separated, but still very much there. He is everywhere, trotting
through the halls of the art building, laying with us in bed,
lounging under the easels in my studio, and in the back yard-
especially the back yard. This should fill me with joy, but I know he
is just a phantom. I can tell by the big hole he left in my body and
the rock in my throat. I suffer the phantom dog now, but I can't bear
to have a single memory fade.
Now I really understand dog people.