At Least One More
I wonder if I’ve been a little gun-shy about posting for the last couple of years. We got Murphy because Comet and Jax were still just barely young enough to run a puppy ragged, and it was certainly fun to post adorable puppy pictures for a while. But I was kind of holding my breath, I think.
As Murphy grew into a handsome, sweet therapy dog and adventure companion, Comet went from an active senior to a Very Old Dog, and Jax is only a year behind him. Maybe it almost felt like if I acknowledged how healthy and sturdy they were, I would jinx it.
Every time Comet perks up when I say “walk?” it feels like I’ve stolen something that isn’t mine. I can’t quite believe that we have a thirteen-year-old dog who wants to cuddle and snooze all day, but still perks up to amble 2 miles and more in the woods (with a little break at the top of this or that hill).
By traditional math, Comet is 91 in dog years. By more modern calculations for a dog his size, he’s still roughly 85. That makes Jax 80ish, but don’t tell him. Unlike Comet, who is having a little trouble with with weakness and coordination, Jax hasn’t gotten the memo that his third birthday came and went more than a few years ago.
Murphy, of course, is actually three, and he, for one, got the memo that now is the prime of his life. He can climb a mountain, comfort a hospice patient, run Jax ragged, and respect that Comet doesn’t want to be bugged. He can jump out of the water and sprint down the trail so fast that he leaves a spray of water around him like fairy dust.
Yes, I still feel dread that acknowledging that the old dogs are impossibly sturdy and the young dog is impossibly nice will somehow cause fate to willfully misunderstand me and snatch one of them away.
And while that will certainly happen some day not too long from now, it will happen when it happens and not because I took too much joy in the days between this beautiful walk and whatever comes next.
On these hikes, I sometimes look down at Comet as we crest a hill and he’s huffing and puffing a bit, and I say, “Maybe this is the last hike we do, buddy, and that will be ok.” But each time, he says back, “Not today,” and we have one more beautiful, impossible day. And then that old dog wades out into the cold water, just for kicks, and the light bounces off the surface and blinds me a little. Maybe there’s a little water in my eyes too, and everything is rainbow, rainbow, rainbow.
And then I let him go and bring him home, all at once, one more time.
With thanks to Robert Frost and Elizabeth Bishop for a couple of the best turns of phrase ever found in the woods or on the water.