There’s a lot going on these days: pandemics and earthquakes and societal collapse and generalized widespread anxiety. Also, online homeschool. But there’s been this other dark cloud in our home for over a month, and I realized a while ago that I wasn’t making progress on any other writing because I really needed to write about my dog.
It’s hard to write and re-write something that you know you’ll never get right.
It just happened again.
Sitting here in the living room, I look up from my reading to see the mail carrier’s stride down the sidewalk, turn towards our driveway, three steps up the porch and to the mail slot and he shuffles and shoves envelopes into our home. There’s the clang and sharp, short ring of the metal trap door of the portal slamming shut, and he walks away at the steady unfettered pace, cutting a corner along the yard to the next address.
Immediately when I saw him I braced myself to calm the dog. And every goddamn time for the past four weeks the loud silence kicks me in the gut. I know she’s gone, but it still surprises me each and every moment. We drop a piece of popcorn; I open the door to leave the house; I come home and look into the window; I get up from bed. And for all these there’s no being diving for the kernel, no shuffling of paws to follow me out the door; no soft ears peering over the pane and starting to get up as though propelled by the wagging tail; no greeting and rolling over to say good morning.
Karyn says that Maggie is everywhere and nowhere. The house is empty without her and full of all of the places she should be. I’ve said that it’s loud with quiet, all wrong. Her breaths at the foot of the bed have evaporated, and with each unlatching of the door I flinch with expectation of paws on the hardwood floor, ready to follow us out into the backyard.
The absence feels more normal as time passes, but I’m not sure that’s what I want.
Maggie’s presence was always a happy surprise, not because she was herself out-of-the-ordinary but because she just wove into our lives from out of the blue. Even finding her, the result of Karyn extending her radius unrealistically to the “over 100 miles” setting on the find-a-dog search engine, found her not quite two hours away on a farm. She and her litter were an accident, the first descendants of her Springer Spaniel mother whose human family imagined a matchmaking with a similar hunting dog. Instead, some canine bachelor from some adjoining or remote farm — we’ll never know — paid a visit and sired a potluck of multicolored multi-patterned multi-personalitied siblings. On our visit, Maggie was the one we at first didn’t focus on because she kept finding other things to do: make friends with a cat or explore the outer reaches of the yard. When the owner pointed her out, the Poky Little Puppy with an interest in all things, we knew she was the one. A few days later, she’d happily be doted on in the back seat of the car during the two-hour drive home.
Maggie always seemed to know that we were the ones for her, too. This is all mysterious to me, but that’s the way it works. I don’t pretend even to understand my human relationships and loves and the overall impact of the people who bring blessings and goodness to my life. I certainly don’t understand how Maggie brought me joy. I know, though, that there’s nothing quite like seeing her (as I still do) reaching out to stretch, first her front legs, then her back, as I lace up my shoes to go outside. There’s nothing quite like having her brush up alongside as I reach for the door, eager but not frenzied, like this was the best thing in the world and we were just going to step out and spend time with the people we love most in this world as if this is the most important thing we should be doing right now.
Which, of course, it is.
So it was always easy to be persuaded: Maggie’s head on my lap while I sat on the piano bench, or just that look from the living room, or just her presence and a glance through the window to the outside. Yes, yes it is a good idea to go out today, soon, right-this-very-moment-just-let-me-get-my-shoes. That was always, always, always (I can’t say that enough because I can’t think of a counterexample) a good idea. The flag of the bright white tip of Maggie’s tail was a beacon always pulling me forward to a better place.
There were times when it was cold or it was wet or it was windy and, even still, it was a good idea to go out with Maggie. I marveled, and I think she did too, at the level of preparation that I might put into an outing: extra traction, gloves, hat, rain gear, re-thinking my shoes, sunglasses, backpack, an extra sip of water, phone, watch, changing from shorts to pants, but maybe not, and then changing back again. The whole time she watched me, ready, patient though incredulous. And then with me and my ensemble of gear I’d step out into weather that may or may not have been uncomfortable. Maggie, essentially naked, seemed to just shake her head at me, wait for me to latch a lead to her collar, and escorted me out the door.
Her favorite was snow.
She never hesitated to head out into the cold. It could be up a hill through untracked powder or back down a chute with everything she could offer, which was always faster than I could ski or run myself. She’d stay alongside until I coaxed her, at which point she would just shift a gear, leaving me behind even as I was exerting everything. Then she’d let me catch up.
Our last run was on a Sunday, snow both on the ground and falling through space. It was like lots of Sunday runs up on the trails and into the mountains. At each junction she’d pause, look back, and then hedge her bet in one direction, always always always on a heading that was farther, steeper, more distant. We’ve joked that if Maggie made all the decisions for all of our turns we’d end up in Wyoming. And once, when Anna was home and went on a hike with Maggie, the human didn’t pay attention to exactly where she was going and instead followed the dog until the human realized she didn’t know where she was anymore. Seven miles later she was done with her proposed two-mile hike. And so it was with my run on this snowy Sunday, like so many others: If we paused at an intersection Maggie would wait a little, then start to lean and then walk towards and then make a case for why we should keep going up this particularly deviant route. The whole time she’d look back at me. This way? her eyes and ears prompted. If we paused too long, she would start to protest — one of the few times she’d bark in disagreement with me or show any impatience.
Just yesterday I paused at the junction and didn’t know what to do with myself. That’s when I broke down. And then I recognized that Maggie would want me to keep going, would be impatient even. So I kept running as I cleared my eyes just well enough to see where I was going.
A month later, I still step around where her bed should be, still rush my step as I’m getting up each morning, anticipating that she’s getting up as well. In a way it’s nice, a re-remembering of her presence and our routines. There are so very many things I don’t want to forget:
Her ears, for example. They were soft and smooth just like the original puppy ears, from puppy to adult and beyond. They were a dark brown and of some luxurious element that defied states of matter, not solid or liquid.
She rarely got any scraps but she was always optimistic: popcorn, yogurt, cheese, carrots. And she’d do anything for peanut butter and could sense the turn of its lid from anywhere in the house. Even at the end, from the basement with three lame legs she’d detect its emergence and come up the stairs against all handicap and good judgement. For years I’d told her she couldn’t have peanut butter as I opened the fridge. In those last few days, and forevermore, I changed my tune.
Her howl when we’d return home. Grace could have just come home from school or I could have been returning from work. Or if you came to visit, especially if she knew you, even just once. Her pack was inclusive of all. But especially for any of us, hearing the latch of the door or the rumble of the garage she’d immediately prep herself for a greeting and celebrate our entrance, tail wagging and an exuberance trumpeted. It was never about how we’d left, but about being back together.
She was a scout of all things. She’d stay out in front, look back to make sure I was behind, come running back with those ears flopping, tail flagging its bright white tip as if it propelled her along or was part of the entire windup mechanism.
She would torpedo forward when she happened to see a rabbit. It wasn’t an obsession, just an opportunity; and I don’t believe she ever really wanted to catch a rabbit, just chase the flash of gray and white bounding into the underbrush. She came bounding back when we called her, excited and proud of her discovery and quick action, not disappointed at all that she left it to continue its existence among roots and holes. Once, miraculously and blessedly, she turned back on a dime when Karyn called her off the pursuit of a skunk that had suddenly flashed in front of them. And I’ve had her freeze in her tracks before crossing the path of a rattlesnake stretched across a sun soaked trail. She carried exuberance and temperance side-by-side.
She was such a good dog.
But a deer was different. A deer was too tempting, too much promise of a glorious, impossible chase. Looking back on it, I think it was the impossibility that was so alluring. It wasn’t often, but if she took to the chase before we could keep her focus with us, she would rush off into the hills, the horizon, the Continental Divide, in unfettered unapologetic pursuit.
Right after the moment Maggie died, in my throes of sobs and breath-catching, I had this image of her bounding off across the high Unitas on a backpacking trip years ago. She’d caught sight of a deer passing by our campsite and she immediately took to a glorious chase, the deer running, floating gracefully across rocky terrain at 11,000 feet above sea level, just open mountainside of talus and and an unencumbered horizon for escape. I’d jumped up to stop her, called and called in complete futility; but simultaneously I was in awe of the energy and determination of that dog racing off, so full of joy and excitement. Hers wasn’t the ambition to catch this creature, just a spirited zeal of pursuit, an open throttle across open terrain. As that memory replayed and swept over me, an out of the blue, uncontrolled laughter shook me between tears.
The thing about Maggie is that she loved. I used to think that this is stupid to say about a dog. My tendency is to reduce our physical selves to bags of chemicals whose exchange powers the drive belts and wheels of cognition and emotion. Stimulus and response. And animals, especially, you’d think — I’d think — are this kind of cause-and-effect collection of fibers, pulleys and string just playing out the chains of cellular connection.
But that dog changed my mind. She leaned against me and wagged; she stretched her front legs out far when she anticipated an outing; she looked up with eyes of — and there’s no other way to describe it — love. How do I know? I’m sure I can’t convince anyone who doesn’t already know, but I could be gone for a week or Anna could come home after months away from college and she’d remember. It’s you!! she’d emote with her wag and howl, a bounding out the door to greet us if she could manage it. That dog was love and joy and companion, all in one.
She was all go at all times. Until she wasn’t. Two weeks before she died even she knew she couldn’t go out with us. She’d lie there and watch us assemble our ridiculous shoes and clothes and continue to watch through the window as we headed out. But, Jesus, when we came back, she was there at the door, wagging her tail — not to tell us how much she’d wished she could go, but to welcome us back.
A dear friend offered this poem from the Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison conversation, Braided Creek, a book I’d given to him a couple years ago, and a good reminder why we should share poetry. It comes backs full circle:
To have reverence for life
you must have reverence for death.
The dogs we love are not taken from us
but leave when summoned by the gods.
This image puts a crack in my agnosticism. I have no better explanation for the loss of Maggie. Wretched, selfish gods.
But they made a good choice, and I can’t imagine a more appropriate setting for her existence. Maybe, while looking over this flawed world, they needed her even more than we do.
Maybe.
Yesterday, like so many days on the mountainside, there was a rustle in the underbrush that caught my ear. Often you can’t tell what it is; usually it’s a small bird, sometimes a squirrel, once in a while something more charismatic and/or alarming like the skunk. Today it was a robust and ruffled grouse, a bird that Maggie’s nature would have wanted to flush immediately. It scattered away, but stayed in the underbrush instead of taking to a tree branch from where it could have scolded us.
I haven’t seen a deer on the trail since Maggie died. That’s odd, yet just random coincidence, I know. But in my heart I feel them all hiding away in mourning, their deep depths of dark pooled eyes looking out at me from the tree cover as I pass by. They line up in formation. They bow their heads in a moment of silence as my solitude and her spirit pass by.
Someday, maybe soon, tomorrow, years from now, I suspect I’ll spot a deer and I’ll remember. I’ll recall that joy in the chase even especially when there’s no hope to catch anything. I’m not sure that you won’t see me burst forward, eyes lit and adrenaline surging, a quick shift into some unholy gear and with the sudden injection of spirit, I’ll bound out across the mountainside for that deer, not with any hope to catch up to it but with the joy of running an open throttle into the hills. There’s a rush of wind, a distant perch, and a steep slope to run. Maggie’s lesson to me is to run them, while I can, with all I have.
