My dog, Kramer, trusts me. I’d like to believe I earned it.
She trusted me when she was in youth and vigor, and now, here we are, at her end, and she’s trusting me to make The Call, not a day too soon, not a day too late…
The situation puts me in what I call The God Spot, when little ordinary people like me are put in a position to decide for Life or Death.
I wilt under the pressure of deciding, for even one life, and that a dog. ‘Who am I?’ I ask in silence.
My goodness, I wouldn’t want to be God for nothing.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Last Sunday I awoke in the morning to blood on the floor. Monday morning, the vet…
Faced with the option of putting her to sleep or having an operation that might give her a littlemoretime, it was an easy choice…
…which you soon second guess. All the next day it’s, Well, she’s still woozy, and the day after that it’s, Well, of course she’s in pain…
She won’t eat, looks listless, and then Yay, one little tail wag, or one little nibble of food, and it’s let’s-give-it-a-chance…
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Facebook has this calendar thing, where it reminds us of posts on their anniversary, and one of those, from two years ago, was a story I wrote about Kramer going missing.
She was missing for 14 days. On the first day I was certain she’d be found; on the 14th day I was certain she wouldn’t.
She pulled a Lassie Come Home. I wrote a story about it, called The Prodigal Dog.
She was never the same. Her hearing was gone. Her tail wagged, but not as enthusiastically, she could still move quick, but for neither long, nor far.
And so, we went to the next stage, a facing of facts, me with gray in my hair, she with gray on her muzzle.
I was conscious of the grace of it all, like a Sunday School parable, something lost had been found. Our little friendship, man and dog, wasn’t over, but I knew, that over was coming.
And now it could be any given day.
I’m in the God Spot.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Speaking of Coincidences
I arrive in church this morning to find that the pastor is beginning a new series of sermons on…you guessed it…
Death.
If you want to peel Christianity down to essentials, somewhere right there where the thin can’t get any thinner, you’re gonna have to face an empty tomb.
That’s our thing. Our Hero didn’t end death, but He defeated the hell outta the permanence.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I’ll try to paraphrase a story the pastor relayed…
…a little kid comes to his mother to ask about death, and she says, You know how sometimes you fall asleep in my bed, and then when you wake up you find that you’re in your bed, in your room? You got there because your father lifted you up while you were sleeping and took you there. That’s what death is: you go to sleep in one place and your Father comes and brings you where you belong.
That’s nice.
I hope that applies to pets too.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, where Uncle P wishes to inform you that he had a steak for dinner, and Kramer had a bunch of it. It’s the most she’s eaten all week. I look back on the trail we shared and realize that though she never was a bark-er, neither was she a quitter.
She’s napping on her side, right near my chair. She never read a story I’ve written but she’s been rightthere for near all o’ em.
Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories can be found on the Eighty-one Facebook page. He can be reached at 81creativity@gmail.com.
Comments are closed.