Talking to Myself Fifty-Five

 

Photo of Wag by Doc Ellen DVM at Jordan Dam

Talking to Myself Fifty-Five December 27, 2020

Oh, Wag, where have you gone?

The house feels empty. You fought

so hard to keep living and then you

quit. Too much trouble to eat or

drink. Your moans got quieter. Your

front paws barely moved. Tim said,

“She’s dying,” and so you were. He

said, “I’ll bury her, out behind the

garden.” I said okay. Words escaped

me. I remembered the puppy I 

rescued when the weather turned

cold. I got her inside the backyard

fence. She cried all night. I called

the animal rescue people and got

her inside. She hid behind the

toilet, her little world in disarray.

Two dog-lovers came. The man

got down on his hands and knees, 

and acted like a dog. You were

reassured. You peed on the woman

who was holding you, and she

didn’t mind. They gave me a booklet

on dog care. We’d had a dog when

the kids were young, but she lived

outside mostly. When she died,

she’d gone into the woods, and we

didn’t see her die. You lived eighteen

years.  People told me, “She must

be loved to live so long.”  She couldn’t

walk, had trouble eating, often kept

Tim awake. He carried her in and

out, knew how to position her so

she wouldn’t cry and could get

to sleep. Now you sleep with the

night creatures, and Janet says

you watch us from your new

heavenly home.