Way back when Kythereia was a smaller goddess, she lived on the same street with this family. They were–and are–unfailingly cheerful, unstoppably kind, unbelievably sweet. They’re thoughtful, warm, generous, and friendly–from the mom and dad to the eldest brother, to the youngest (who I went to school with and played together with [del]and had a bit of a crush on, shhh, don’t tell[/del]).
Even the* dog* was a good soul. Luther was a big, lolloping, floppy Golden Retriever, all ears and wagging tail. If you threw a stick to him he’d run up to it on the ground and bark furiously at it (apparently hoping it’d spontaeously combust or something). You poked your head past the screen door and he’d skitter up on all four paws, all excited, tail lashing like crazy and tongue lolling out as he tried to lick you; I swear, anyone could walk in the door of that house and they’d end up giving him a big belly rub. You couldn’t resist.
The youngest brother and I went to different middle schools, and he grew to six feet tall and shaved off all his hair (and dyed it blue). Luther grew older, with grey around his muzzle, but still trotted up to meet us at the front door with a wagging tail. We sat together at lunch in high school and I remember picking out Christmas presents–a bone, a chew toy–for Luther, but I hadn’t seen him for years.
Today the mom stopped by our house, and told us the story on the front porch: Luthor’d had a stroke a couple of days ago; he lay unable to move, in a pool of his own vomit. He recuperated a bit by the next morning, but it was time. The mom held his head in her lap and told him she loved him, and the doctor gave him the needle.
I wish I’d given him one last belly-rub before he went.
“The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.”
–Mark Twain
When I get reincarnated, I want to come back in puppy form. I wish I had a tail to chase now.
Oh, if I had a tail, I’d wag it…I’d wag it when i was unhappy…
My next door neighbour Kate has a Border Collie called Polly who is such a friendly dog. I’m not really able to keep a dog at my place nowadays - I’m not able to be there enough for a happy dog - but Polly has free reign over my garden at all times, and my house when I’m in and leave the back door open. Anyway, I love coming home and Polly is running about welcoming me, and I’m sure it just isn’t because I have a supply of her beloved ginger snaps on hand.
Incidentally, Polly adopted a stray cat (called Cat) a couple of years ago - they both prefer to live in Kate’s junk-filled garage most of the year, until it gets really cold or there is a thunderstorm about, at which time the baskets are moved indoors at Polly’s prompting. Polly is also the only dog I’ve ever met who is fascinated by rather than terrified by fireworks. Collies are cool.
It’s sad, but dogs can never be Life Companions; the life expectancy is just too different. Looking at the (relatively, slightly) bright side, I think that Luther’s family was forunate to have him survive through their kids’ childhood and teens. Growing up with the same pet to love throught one’s formative years is, perhaps, a sign that one has been graced. I’ve seen younger children’s reactions to a loved pet dying, and it isn’t pretty
And Goldens are the best! I’m sure Luther is frolicking in Bunny Hell right now, chasing the damned bunnies all over the place (hey, it’s only their Hell; it’s his Heaven! :))