Can't Let Go

4:30 P. M.  The last appointment was 4:30 P. M. on the 21^st.  I called to make the appointment, but I couldn’t go.  My husband walked him out through the garage to the car and gently lifted the old dog to the back seat and drove to the last appointment.

We don’t walk our dogs, we have leashes and collars but they exercise in the back yard and all around the first floor and sometimes run upstairs to upset the cats.  But as he waited at the kitchen/garage door, listening to the groan of the now manual double door being lifted, he stood perfectly still and wagged that tail.

And then he left.  I cried, I mean I wailed relentlessly and waited for my husband to return.

It was more than awful.

The four remaining dogs, all seniors were dazed and unsettled for the several days following.  Our Pug, who is legally blind, searched every inch of the linoleum floor for her favorite warm speed bump.  Our Weimeraner stayed off the recliner in tribute to her older brother.  The alpha lady, went to the sun lit spot on the kitchen floor and sniffed and wondered why he wasn’t there at nap time. Our Schnauzer who always ran just underneath him, found no warm canopy to keep her safe when exploring the back yard.

He had been our big boy for 12 plus years. Death came and changed him.  I likened his appearance to an abstract painting. It happened too quickly…we loved him anyway.

And then he wouldn’t eat. That’s always the final indication.  We’ve been through this many, many times.

It’s been six weeks and I still can’t let go.  The house seems cavernous; the spot on the kitchen floor, reserved for his food bowl, now flows into the pattern of tiles without interruption.  The blankets, once his bedding, have been washed, folded and lay in the linen closet and have no purpose.

His last photo is the only picture I keep on my phone camera.  I’m saving it as a reference for a future painting. That will be an emotional reunion and uncomfortable reunion as I sit and try to capture his likeness on a gessoed 16 by 20 inch canvas.

I can’t explain why he stays.  Call it spirit or soul or wishful thinking. He’s here in this place I call home.  I sense him in my private moments, going about my routine and remembering him. He guards this house from the other side.  We have new next door neighbors and their dog won’t come anywhere near the fence line. Curious because my four charge at the fence to beckon play or agitation and it never complies.

I see him peering through the windows as I approach the front walkway.  His head still towers over the other four.

I hear him, large and in charge, at least I think I do.

I will tell you this…

He is here in the room with the piano.  It’s my conservatory, my sanctuary. It’s where I connect with joy as I play for my own pleasure.  My right foot, suspended above the sustain pedal is heavy with the weight of his head.  He was my constant underfoot companion when engaged in my imaginary concerts.  The other four would scatter and find personal spaces for meditation. He always stayed right with me.

He is at the foot of my bed and I still maneuver around him in those pre-dawn hours when bathroom breaks interrupt my dreams.

He is at the threshold of the many rooms I enter and exit throughout my days.  He waits upon me and I bend to pat his head and then it hits me…

He is not away, he’s just guiding me from that point just behind the horizon.

It’s wonderful to know that he cherished me, too. Thank you, Shadow.