We Knew This Day Would Come

 

Her paw print arrived today.

Bastards.

Just about the time I could get through three hours at a time without crying; just about the time I no longer bowed in reverence to the sacred places where she loved to sleep; just about the time I’d laughed really hard in days,  I opened the card from the vet who put my dog down. There was Libby’s paw print. Punch to the gut. Damn doctor. She didn’t even warn me. A sudden gasp caught in my throat and then came the heaving sobs, as I stood there, next to the mailbox, holding the card to my heart.

Now I will need to add the pawprint to the reminders of my beloved companion of 14 years. There is a certain keen and excruciating torture to possessing 1,796 photos of the dog you’ve just put to sleep. How do you begin to sort out the keepers from the discards in pursuit of creating a tribute to a golden, silky-eared mutt who brought you back to life?

In 2011 Libby and I took a road trip of close to 9,000 miles, all across America, just the two of us. It wasn’t a lark. Wasn’t really a joy ride either. The only way I can describe it is restoration. I was trying to bring back the person I forgot I liked. I hadn’t been myself for some time, like years. There had been “a lot of a lot” as my late brother Garrett used to say when bad things piled on. Garrett died in 2002. Then, my ex-husband got sent to prison for seven years, leaving me high and dry with four kids. Then my mother died. When my oldest brother Don died late in 2010, it cemented in me a sense of despair. My life could be over too, at any minute and I was not engaged in anything that meant a goddamn thing to me. I suppose you could say I snapped.

So, I took off. I quit my job. I had $3800 to my name. Hell, my monthly expenses amounted to more than that, but I left anyway. Took Libby with me. I left my youngest son in St. Louis with his dog Lou. Told Sean I would send enough money home to keep the lights on. Told him it would take at least six months for the bank to begin foreclosure and I’d figure it all out when I got back. Wasn’t sure when.

As things turned out, we were gone for two months. Libby and I traveled through the Midwest to the east coast, down the eastern seaboard, across the south, the southwest, all the way up the west coast, to San Francisco, the place I was born. The route, about 8,600 miles, was loosely planned around stops to see relatives and friends with whom I’d lost touch over the years, also people who would put us up for free.

I had adult children in New York City, D.C., and Los Angeles, so that made for a wide loop around the country. Convenient too, for visiting all the states in which I’d lived: Virginia, North Carolina, Texas, New Mexico, and California. Having gone through so much loss –my brothers, my mother, my marriage — the life I thought I was going to have—I felt an overwhelming need to reconnect with the people I loved who were still alive! I dreamt of being back in the places where I’d grown up. The wide-open landscapes of the West pulled on my soul like drawing salve. It became an obsession. Attending to this longing was the only way I could heal.

It worked. Gosh, did it work. I blogged throughout my travels, that was part of the deal. I crowd-sourced enough money for food, gas and Motel 6s, the only place I could consistently rely on for me and my dog. We returned safely home just before Labor Day, no money, no job, but enough material for a book. All the while, Libby, my companion; Libby, my confidant; Libby, my muse.  She was right there in the back seat, her steady, dark eyes meeting mine in the rear view mirror. I was never alone when I was with her.

How do you begin to recount such an experience? In the years since that trip, I’ve tried many times to explain how it felt—to be a woman, alone, out on a hot-as-a-griddle, two-lane blacktop in the panhandle of Texas, or inching around the hairpin turns of an Appalachian mountain pass in the misty rain—with only a big, yellow dog as my companion, looking out the window. Sometimes she looked wise—like an overseer sizing up their charge. Other times, she would look most quizzically at things, like horses and cattle and the ocean, especially the ocean. I delighted in wondering what could be going on in her doggie brain.

How could you describe that tinge of apprehension, the way it felt to flip on the light of a dark motel room at the cheapest place you could find, the deadbolt clanking in the metal door behind you. Then, the ever-present soundtrack of tractor-trailers rumbling by, with the two of you spooning on the bed as you fell asleep—Libby, my protector. How can you begin to portray a bond like this?

Maybe you don’t.

Maybe you just can’t.

Maybe you accept the grace of understanding that nobody but the two of you will ever really know. You simply lay your cheek against her cheek, and stroke her velvet ear and whisper, “thank you for being with me.”