Saturday, March 31, 2018
The Endless Goodbye
Evan was on the Colorado Springs shelter page at the close of 2009.
We showed the kids his photo and went about New Year's Eve stuff.
I said, "if either of the kids follow up on asking about him, then we'll go visit him the day after New Year's when they reopen."
New Year's Day 2010, Sam asks, "So are we going to see that border collie?"
Done.
He was not very interested in us in the visiting room, more focused on all the dogs outside the window passing by. But who can blame him for that?
He came home with us. Katy showed him the ropes immediately.
That afternoon and evening I took the first set of what would become a trove of memories.
We would get exactly 75 months like this, together.
If 99% of my photos are just him, or just us, it's because over those 75 months that devotion only grew. There was no other being with whom I shared almost every moment, both waking and sleeping.
He was highly sensitive to emotions and constantly kept me in check.
When he'd have bad dreams, whining in his sleep, all I had to to do was whisper, "Sshhhhh. I'm here" and he would quiet immediately.
His presence did the same for me.
He was the reason I got out of bed in the morning, to go on our sunrise walks together.
He was the reason I crawled into bed at night, to have cuddles and kitty treats.
He was there as Nick, and then Sam, flew the nest. He was by my side as I recovered from the cancer scare and awful hysterectomy recovery. He patiently waited for me to recover from hip surgery to resume our walks. He was by Katy's side as she took her last breaths, on another cold New Year's Eve, exactly five years after we had seen him on the shelter's page.
She'd gotten 14 years with us.
He got 7.
Little did I know as we bid goodbye to Katy girl, the clock was quickly counting down the final 15 months I would have with him.
I've spent the past 12 months grappling with his loss. He continues to be with me, every hour of every day, his absence a constant ache that I've had to learn to live with.
Aidan's presence has been a balm. He is different in almost every way from the introverted and sensitive Evan. And they would have been so good for one another, but had we the chance.
So I will slog through the first anniversary of that horrible March 31, in the midst of the chaos of endless requests from work as I received the out-of-the-blue news that he was dying, quickly and painfully.
And through the night that turned into the new month, as I listened to his ragged and strangled breathing, and brought him water as he lay beside me and knew he could not weather another night like that one.
Into the dawn of his last day, when I held him that last time, his great deep brown eyes looking into mine, as the needle slid in, and I said to him, for the very last time, "Ssshhh, I'm here."
And he quieted, one last time.
And irrevocably.
I am still here, beautiful boy.
I miss the crazy plume of your forever wagging tail -- the silhouette of which is emblazoned on Aidan's face. Besides his eyes, it was the first thing I thought of when I saw his shelter photo.
I miss your radar ears, constantly rotating up and down.
I miss your excited hoppity hops waiting, encouraging me to pick up the ball and throw it. Or waiting on another dog to come into the dog park. Bouncy bouncy Evan. Especially in the snow. Pure joy on four paws.
I miss you taking bites of snow as you walked or played.
I miss you flopping down in the middle of any and all puddles, streams, and even rivers.
I miss your beautiful white curls, especially when wet.
I miss playing fetch with you. Aidan loves to chase it, but he's not too keen on returning it right to me like you always did.
I miss you greeting every dog that passed by like you were the mayor there, welcoming them in through the gate.
I miss your waiting on me to say, "let's go nigh-nigh" so you could run into the bedroom and hop up on the bed.
I miss how gently you would take treats from my hand, so delicate and sweet.
I miss the sound of you cleaning out the kitty can each morning.
I miss that deep, deep "woof" when you got really excited (usually with Katy).
I miss you peeking at me from above when I'd come into the house and you were waiting upstairs for me to return.
I miss your pause at the top of the stairs so you could step down at the same time as I did.
I miss the depth of your beautiful brown eyes as they gazed into my soul.
Before you know what kindness really isWe showed the kids his photo and went about New Year's Eve stuff.
I said, "if either of the kids follow up on asking about him, then we'll go visit him the day after New Year's when they reopen."
New Year's Day 2010, Sam asks, "So are we going to see that border collie?"
Done.
He was not very interested in us in the visiting room, more focused on all the dogs outside the window passing by. But who can blame him for that?
He came home with us. Katy showed him the ropes immediately.
That afternoon and evening I took the first set of what would become a trove of memories.
the next set comes one week later, on the day of January 9, 2010, which was Nick's 17th's birthday.
And it came after an exhausting afternoon of chasing this dumb dog all over kingdom come for hours, in the snow, with Nick's broken foot, because he bolted out the open front door when the kids were horsing around carrying stuff in from the car.
I remember thinking, as we'd finally lost sight of him "well, I guess this wasn't meant to be."
But miraculously, on one more sweep through the last neighborhood we'd seen him in, there he was.
And the birthday celebration that night was a double one for the prodigal dog's return.
look at this guilty face
Set #3, third weekend:
during the week, he was a permanent fixture at my feet at my desk or on the couch
Last weekend of January 2010, fourth set of photos, and he was mine entirely
If 99% of my photos are just him, or just us, it's because over those 75 months that devotion only grew. There was no other being with whom I shared almost every moment, both waking and sleeping.
He was highly sensitive to emotions and constantly kept me in check.
When he'd have bad dreams, whining in his sleep, all I had to to do was whisper, "Sshhhhh. I'm here" and he would quiet immediately.
His presence did the same for me.
He was the reason I got out of bed in the morning, to go on our sunrise walks together.
He was the reason I crawled into bed at night, to have cuddles and kitty treats.
He was there as Nick, and then Sam, flew the nest. He was by my side as I recovered from the cancer scare and awful hysterectomy recovery. He patiently waited for me to recover from hip surgery to resume our walks. He was by Katy's side as she took her last breaths, on another cold New Year's Eve, exactly five years after we had seen him on the shelter's page.
She'd gotten 14 years with us.
He got 7.
Little did I know as we bid goodbye to Katy girl, the clock was quickly counting down the final 15 months I would have with him.
I've spent the past 12 months grappling with his loss. He continues to be with me, every hour of every day, his absence a constant ache that I've had to learn to live with.
Aidan's presence has been a balm. He is different in almost every way from the introverted and sensitive Evan. And they would have been so good for one another, but had we the chance.
So I will slog through the first anniversary of that horrible March 31, in the midst of the chaos of endless requests from work as I received the out-of-the-blue news that he was dying, quickly and painfully.
And through the night that turned into the new month, as I listened to his ragged and strangled breathing, and brought him water as he lay beside me and knew he could not weather another night like that one.
Into the dawn of his last day, when I held him that last time, his great deep brown eyes looking into mine, as the needle slid in, and I said to him, for the very last time, "Ssshhh, I'm here."
And he quieted, one last time.
And irrevocably.
I am still here, beautiful boy.
I miss the crazy plume of your forever wagging tail -- the silhouette of which is emblazoned on Aidan's face. Besides his eyes, it was the first thing I thought of when I saw his shelter photo.
I miss your radar ears, constantly rotating up and down.
I miss your excited hoppity hops waiting, encouraging me to pick up the ball and throw it. Or waiting on another dog to come into the dog park. Bouncy bouncy Evan. Especially in the snow. Pure joy on four paws.
I miss you taking bites of snow as you walked or played.
I miss you flopping down in the middle of any and all puddles, streams, and even rivers.
I miss your beautiful white curls, especially when wet.
I miss playing fetch with you. Aidan loves to chase it, but he's not too keen on returning it right to me like you always did.
I miss you greeting every dog that passed by like you were the mayor there, welcoming them in through the gate.
I miss your waiting on me to say, "let's go nigh-nigh" so you could run into the bedroom and hop up on the bed.
I miss how gently you would take treats from my hand, so delicate and sweet.
I miss the sound of you cleaning out the kitty can each morning.
I miss that deep, deep "woof" when you got really excited (usually with Katy).
I miss you peeking at me from above when I'd come into the house and you were waiting upstairs for me to return.
I miss your pause at the top of the stairs so you could step down at the same time as I did.
I miss the depth of your beautiful brown eyes as they gazed into my soul.
I will miss you forever; I will love you for longer.
And I will hear tho' soft you tread above me
And then my grave will warm and sweeter be
For you shall bend and tell me that you love me
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me
(I put these together as a way to grieve, to remember, to cherish. More tears have gone into these than I knew I had in me. I don't really expect anyone to sit through them except me.)
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness. . . .
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
3/27/18 Spring Snows
I always love taking this route on snow mornings. The evergreens look like theater curtains parting.
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