The trouble with Life is that it is a one-way affair: there is no turning back, no opportunity to rewind the tape, revisit a scene, refresh an event. There is only memory — and, frankly, it is not enough. It does not replace flesh-and-blood reality.
Sprawled on the floor with our dear dog Dory in my arms, I felt a sense of finality in the act of proclaiming my love, nuzzling her nose, rubbing her incredibly velvety ears, and looking into her big brown eyes, locked on mine, as her breathing slowed, and life seeped out of her. I can’t have that experience ever again — only its replica, like a faded Polaroid. This is a cruel reality, and I feel the pain in my throat and chest as I write these words and occasionally burst into sobs. Reader, indulge me.
All along, I knew this dog was special. I found her as an abandoned puppy on the mean streets of Miami almost 16 years ago, and I knew it the instant I saw her. Our bond was profound and unique; our lives were intertwined in a most complex and ultimately satisfying way.
There was an unspoken mutuality in our goals and a sympathy in our movements. Hardly a need for a leash. At any given moment, she anticipated my needs, and I hers. She turned as I turned, stopped when I stopped, without a command. If she preceded me on the beach, there was an almost imperceptible turn of her head as she determined my whereabouts.
If she was loyal, then so was I. I gave her her lead — let her go where she wanted, let her explore the world in ways I could not, with senses I did not have. Between us, we covered a lot of territory. I will never have that again. I walk alone.
In my grief, do I overinvest? Perhaps. People are suffering and dying; our country and the world are on the brink of disaster. Dory is just a dog. But I know this: we all perceive, from an early age, that life is unkind and less than fair, that our planet is not the center of the universe, and each of us is less than a speck on it, that our very hopes and dreams are ephemera in the grand scheme of things. How good it is, then, when we can find any soft, worthy thing to help us get through the day, to warm our hearts and make us smile. Mine was Dory.
I know that I can’t have her and must go through the rest of my life without her. I know that nothing will ever be quite the same. I can’t stand to walk the beach without her. My routines are shattered. I am diminished. Years from now, I will see a dog and its owner having a nice moment, and I will comment that I had a good dog like that. And they will never know. No one will ever know.
I dare to write these words partly because I have no other way to expiate the sorrow I feel, but mostly to leave a record of my love. I know, in this dog-friendly town, that it might register with others who have dealt with loss. These animals are not just pets, not quite friends, definitely companions, but mostly extensions of our selves. The relationship between people and the animals that share their lives resists all definition, as all forms of love do.
I am a grown man, and an old one, at that, to be making such a fuss, bawling in the dark and waking up crying. But I don’t want this grief to go away. It is all I have left of her.
I can’t say I actually believe in Heaven, but if I could imagine it, I would be walking along the beach with Dory — and I realize that I have already been there.
