Dogs in My Life

Monty, the cross-eyed Standard Poodle. And the enormous long-haired Shepard, Ben. Two weekends ago, Monty stayed with his while his human-mom went to a wedding in Spokane. For the last month of our remodel, we lived with Ben and his human parents in a large house on Lake Washington. Ann and I are not ready for a new dog in our lives, so we borrow the dogs of our friends. Last night, we took Ben for a long walk along the Lake and every morning, we see Monty and his human mom on their morning constitution.

"I think someday," I told Ann last night, "we will get tired of borrowing dogs and want one of our own."

"Yes," she said, "But for now, I like borrowing."

This is because we only have temporary obligation to feed, water, and walk the dogs. This is because we both still dream about Chester. This is because we want to try living our lives without having to worry about who will take care of the dog if we travel or go skiing or stay out late at a concert. This is because Chester's long illness and death exhausted us and we are just now figuring out how difficult that was on us. This is because we still think Chester cannot be replaced or that our love for a dog can encompass another dog the way it encompassed Chester. This is because Chester is still every other beat of our hearts.

I had another dog, Abbie, who I loved as much as Chester. In fact, one of the reasons I liked Ann so much on our first few dates is that she had a dog that looked a lot like Abbie. Of course, the more I got to know Chester, the more he didn't resemble Abbie at all, but I do think Abbie was saying, from wherever she is, "This is a good dog" and so I let myself love Chester as much as I loved her.

I still dream about Abbie, but often in those dreams she morphs into Chester. I still miss Abbie -- her smile, the way she greeted me with happy moans, the way she rolled over on her belly to get rubbed. Chester did none of those things. Well, he smiled, but differently than Abbie. But he rarely barked, rarely made noises, and never once did I see him roll over to show his belly.

But the pain of Abbie's death has faded. Now I just remember her happy and the romps we'd take to the beach or the woods, but none of the sadness of her death (I had to put her down too because of her bad back...she was in horrible pain...both she and Chester lived to be 14). I know that someday I'll feel the same about Chester -- the fun memories will replace the painful ones, but for now, I still cry early in the morning when I cannot hear the sound of his waking up, or at night, when I cannot hear the heavy sigh that signaled his saunter into dreamland.

Sometimes, when I dream about him, I can feel the weight of him pushed up against the back of my legs or around my belly -- the places he liked to sleep the most -- and I wake half believing he'll be there only to feel the sunken feeling of his absence all over again.

It's not horrible. It's not like those first few weeks when crying is what I did more than not. It's just on occasion that the feeling of missing him wells up and I have to go borrow a dog, like Monty or Ben.

Or Lulu....
...the other neighbor's dog who we will be walking in the afternoons now that her mom is back at work and the daughter has gone back to college.

It's good to have a dog in our lives, if only part time.

And someday, it will be full time...when we get tired of borrowing...when we can't feel the weight of Chester on our hearts as deeply as we feel it now.