Remembering a great dog

There's a New Yorker cartoon, with a dog laying on the couch at the therapist's office. The therapist is also a dog, and the dog on the couch bemoans, "It's always good dog, never great dog!"

Our family laughed and laughed at that cartoon, and would often say to our dogs, "You're not just a good dog, you're a great dog!"

Blue was a great dog. A Blue merle Australian shepherd, her gentle, queenly soul fed our family's hearts for ten years until she died, at 13, from the seizures that had come visiting more and more frequently the last year of her life.

I could tell you so many stories about Blue - about how she didn't fetch, but would chase dogs who were fetching. Her penchant for sneaking out of the house for a walkabout when we were unloading groceries from the car. Or how she would swim gracefully in the pond for an hour, herding the geese and turtles until they'd had enough.

Each day I took her for a walk to the 52 acres by my house, a path we both knew by heart. Blue died last November, and now lives buried in our backyard. This poem came to me while I walked the path with our dog Bailey, a day when I was remembering and missing Blue.

Dear Blue,

It's been eight months since
we walked to the park, our daily
path past the murky pond
and through the oak trees.
The elderberry bush that feeds
off your bones is taller than you,
with flowers hidden among the leaves.
I love how your bones nourish
this new life –how as you decay,
settling into dust, the bush grows
taller and more lush.

The day you died I washed your body,
ran my hands one last time through
your velvet fur. I clipped some to save
and laughed at your lopsided hair cut,
laughter that pooled into tears. I took off
your collar, laid you on the porch table,
and covered you with a sheet. I came
to visit throughout the day. Sometimes
I laid my head on your chest and told you
what a good dog you were.

I feel you with me when I walk our path.
I remember those last days when you
wagged, eager to come, but flagged
after a few blocks. I'd pick you up
so you could rest your head on my
shoulder. You surrendered your soft,
furry weight into my body as I spun love
stories into your ear. I didn't know how
those stories would carry me after
you were gone, how they'd rise up
from the earth and float on the wind,
to carry me as I once carried you,
to meet me on each walk without you.

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