The first 24 hours

In the first 24-hours that I've learned that Jacob is dying, my mind and heart have been swimming with memories and emotions. Most are hard to sort out and I'm too tired to try. There's one thing that seems important right now though, and that is to try and capture his physical presence somehow. I want to have all of my senses absorb every detail of him before I can't do that anymore.

I try to memorize the feel of Jakes fur. I bury my fingers deep into his white chest fur- it's soft and slightly curly. Then I touch the whispy fur on the top of and beneath his ears. It's silky soft there, and always looks scraggly. On his back, his fur is still soft but coarser and very curly. Funny how it's gotten curlier with age. His vertebrae are noticeable when I run my fingers along his spine. They always have been though, regardless of his weight. His tail-nubbin streams a long, multi-colored flag. (I wonder if I could make a bookmark out of that fur. Would that be morbid?)

Jake's lifetime of living with reactive dogs have earned him some unique features. There is a chunk of his left ear missing and white tufts on the top of his head from scars. I'm noticing again the way his hollow cheeks are accentuated by the missing molar on one side in the the back of his mouth. The molar was removed a couple of years ago because it was cracked; the result of being a power chewer and us giving him bones that were too hard. (I’m so sorry- we didn’t know they were bad for you.)

I bury my nose into his fur, breathing as deeply as I can to take in his scent. I’ve always loved the way his fur smells but today it’s diluted by the chemical smells of yesterday’s visits to the vet. I keep trying anyway.

I touch at his feet and notice how long they look. A lifetime of running agility courses with me (hurry up Mom, you're late again!) have caused his ligaments to breakdown. I am tempted to brush him and trim his nails and yet I know how incredibly stupid that is right now. Plus, Jacob hates being brushed. What true cowdog needs to be pretty anyway, right? Maybe it's the primate in me, wanting to demonstrate affection.

I decide that the best thing to do, and the simplest for both of us, is to lie out on the deck next to Jacob and just watch him. The sun is warm and soothing. We watch for squirrels together. I notice he's breathing a little too fast. I think he hurts. Then he turns, reaches out to bump my nose with his and I start to cry again.

I'm going to miss you, Jacob.

Watching squirrels

General's ashes

She gave you back to me today in a little wooden box with a gold seal.
Carefully, with both hands. And she was somber and sorry,
with her head tilted down and brow furrowed.

A ribbon dripped from the side of the box
A small tag with your name on it.
So festively adorned, such a box you might expect to contain
the secrets of the world
or a gift of some significance
or, at least, a promise.

Carefully handing the box to me. Like this box was something I should want.
That I might say “thank you” for.

My hands touch polished walnut.
I look at the tag and follow the ribbon that leads to the inside of the box.
On the inside was…
Not You.

A tiny bag tied with string containing
ash and bone and

nothing that remotely resembles you.

It seemed important at the time that they took you away that I somehow got you back.
In any form.
Anything at all.

But this is not you.

No. This bag doesn’t nestle in my lap or lay across my shoulders.
It’s not the soft gray fur and warm vibration of a purr.
Not the slowly twitching tail knocking pencils from my desk.
Not your four white paws with black spots on the pink pads.
Not your green eyes half-closed and looking up at me with love.

Not this cup of gritty gray dust in plastic. Not you at all.

I don’t know what I expected when I asked that they give you back to me.
But not this.

Just more evidence that you really are gone,
not just sitting somewhere waiting for me to come and get you.
More evidence that I couldn’t rescue you from the ravages of age or the creeping slyness of senility.

Is this little bag of dust supposed to be the essence of you? Is it supposed to be something for me to cherish?

No. This bag of dust sears the moment your spirit left into my brain again and again.

I held you and watched your eyes lose what little light was left until
they fixed on something too far away for me to see.
Then all I was left holding was a fragile bag of bones
wrapped in gray fur.
Still warm,
but still.

Now I’ve reduced that small memory of you to something even less.

All I wanted was to capture you somehow.
To hold in detail those moments that were ours, and ours alone.
When I knew that you loved and trusted me implicitly.
When I would stroke your fur, scratch under your chin and watch
your eyes meet mine and slowly close.
The feeling of love and peace,
your gift to me,
would flow through my heart and make me so full of joy that I wanted to cry.

How did you do that?

How could you leave me without that?

This walnut box is beautiful but it hides a terrible secret.
It hides the proof that your body was only so much carbon and water.
It was always only carbon and water.
What loved me was your spirit, and your spirit is gone.
I have nothing.

My arms are empty and my heart is torn and cold.

I miss you so much.