The End of Spring and Everything After

Dear Imaginary Reader,

It's been a while. Grading, exam prep, cleaning out the classroom, all those end of the year traditions have kept me away from my paper journal as well as my digital one. This year was marked by the lack of panic, which usually fuels me until June 25th or graduation, which ever comes first.  I finished my grading on time, with little angst, has some nice conversations with colleagues and students,  and I felt as if I had this whole end of the school year under control. The annual heat wave hit and I did not burst into freckled sunburn. The basement flooded and it was no big deal. Without even trying, I managed to be calm in the face of adversity, and not try to wrest control over every situation. I was feeling pretty satisfied, which is usually an indicator to pay attention, because something is going to happen.


To back up a little: in early May, we took the dog to the vet. He was given a diagnosis of cancer, which apparently most dogs get at some point, and liver failure, which was due to a congenital issue. Sixty days, the vet said. We tried some therapies: low-protein chow, milk thistle supplements, weekly vet visits to drain fluid from the abdomen.And then, on June 26th, Boxer, our 9-year old Labrador retriever couldn't stand up, and that was that.

On the ride to the vet, he rode in the waterproof dog sling we had thought would prevent him from shedding all over the car. Occasionally, he would raise his head and peer out the window, resting his chin on the rim of the sling. This was typically how he would return from the Adirondacks: so tired from swimming and chasing sticks and running up and down the steps from camp to dock that he'd sleep for days afterward, and my car would smell like wet dog for a week. But this ride, he was tired, emaciated, unable to walk. His tail still thumped on the seat when I scratched his ears. Then, he'd lie down again, breathing heavily. He was still shedding, even then- his winter coat was almost gone.

When we got this dog, we knew he was a loaner. He was the third guide dog we'd raised to be placed with a person who was visually impaired ; saying goodbye was part of the deal. But when the kennel lost it's funding, and they called to see if we wanted him back, there was no hesitation.

He always slept in the bed with us, stretching out so that your legs were crowded, and it felt like you were sleeping in a box. When he got too weak to jump up, Jim built a set of folding steps that slid under the bed, so he could still climb up in with us. He kept me company evenings, when I'm  alone,  following me from room to room, lying next to me when I washed dishes, read, graded papers. He nudged me to switch gears and go outside for a walk. He barked loudly when someone was outside. He ate my leftover lunch from my work bag, ate my underwear, ate my socks, ate the cat food. He ate every scrap of cheese that was dropped on the floor, and knew  I am a messy cook.

When we arrived, the vet techs came out with a gurney. We wheeled him inside, and they prepped him for the IV, giving us some paperwork to fill out, keeping us busy, occupied. We petted him and cried, and when the vet came in, we petted him and kissed him and cried some more.  I walked out spitting out dog hair, and the ride home seemed hours long. We left him looking like he was asleep, his big blocky head resting on the gurney.

This is not my first dog. I've had dogs since I was 21- Larry, the lab/shep mix who'd chase fishing line when you cast out; Jack, the husky with one blue and one brown eye; Sampson, the brown dog; Daisy, the kid's dog and Dave her pup; Cody, the last Alaska dog. I was never sentimental over the dogs, though I loved them all; it was just part of the animal kingdom when they died. I couldn't understand how people got so attached to their dogs until I did.  It's funny - it's been almost a week and this is the first day I have not cried for missing him. Wednesday we leave for the mountains, and I can't imagine what it will be like without him swimming up to me in the lake, or not finding chewed-up sticks all over the dock, or not having that wet-dog smell in the bedroom.

And now it is Winter. Winter was a good time; he was a good companion in the snow, good to remind me to go for a walk with a nudge to the arm when it was 8 pm. He kept me motivated and healthy. Since he's been gone, I've gained weight, slowed down. Lost interest in things. But you have to let this take it's course. In time, we may get another dog, but it won't be a yellow lab. It won't be him.

WHAT THE DOG PERHAPS HEARS

If an inaudible whistle
blown between our lips
can send him home to us,
then silence is perhaps
the sound of spiders breathing
and roots mining the earth;
it may be asparagus heaving,
headfirst, into the light
and the long brown sound
of cracked cups, when it happens.
We would like to ask the dog
if there is a continuous whir
because the child in the house
keeps growing, if the snake
really stretches full length
without a click and the sun
breaks through clouds without
a decibel of effort,
whether in autumn, when the trees
dry up their wells, there isn't a shudder
too high for us to hear.

What is it like up there
above the shut-off level
of our simple ears?
For us there was no birth cry,
the newborn bird is suddenly here,
the egg broken, the nest alive,
and we heard nothing when the world changed. 

Lisel Mueller