A Dog’s Life
Can we say we have truly lived until…
…we’ve been owned by a beloved pet? One of the deepest relationships of my life (so far!) was with a nine-pound furry lump of attitude we adopted in 2011. We think she was three years old, but never knew for sure. She bit me the first time I tried to pet her. She was scruffy and not friendly, with sad eyes. Not a Westminster-style show winner, by any stretch.
I loved her from the moment I saw her.
My son said she needed a sweet name, like Rose or Lily. I said she reminded me of a doll I had as a child called Pitiful Pearl. Lily Pearl came home with us and became my soul mate for the next twelve years.
And now, a message from Lily Pearl:
I do not begin the day thinking I am wise. But I do know things. For example, I know the time each day the mail drops through the slot in the door. I know the familiar smell of my person’s essence, and can tell how long she’s been gone by how long the scent lingers in the air. And I know that when my person calls my name, Lily Pearl, it is usually one of three things:
A reminder
A reassurance
A request
I do not always follow the request. But I always hear it. And I always care.
This is important to know about me.
The leash clicks and we step out into the neighborhood. The sidewalk is the same as yesterday, but I inspect it as if it might have changed.
(It might have. Some things do when you’re not looking.)
There is a leaf that wasn’t here before. I sniff. It smells like last night’s rain and a small disagreement between two robins. I file this under "situational intelligence."
We pass a fence where the brown dog lives. I look, but he is not outside.
This is a disappointment.
We do not speak, he and I, but we do exchange silent judgments. It’s a vital part of our arrangement.
And today, I miss the flirtation.
My person says something cheerful. It ends with my name.
I pretend I didn’t hear. It’s part of the game.
We walk on.
There are children busy in the playground. I am not allowed into the playground. This is an ongoing tragedy. But I accept my limitations.
As I enjoy the scent of fresh clover, I walk like someone with a secret. (I have several.)
A butterfly lands on my nose. It is a quiet moment, except for the parade in my chest. I do not chase it. I simply blink and watch as she flutters away,
probably to tell someone that today she met someone worth remembering.
We turn toward home. My person says something that sounds like, “You’re such a good girl.” And I think:
Yes.
But also—I am more than that.
I am a quiet marvel.
A witness to life.
A walking poem in fur.
And yes, I’m a little tired now.
With a reassuring touch from my person, I drift away, knowing I am loved. And that my favorite daily treats are yet to come.
P.S. If your heart feels at home here in Kirkwood Park, you’re warmly invited to linger a little longer...there’s plenty to explore.