Creek Running North

A paragraph from A Dog’s Prayer. “And, beloved master, should the Great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight,do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands gant me the merciful boon of eternal rest, and i will leave you knowing with the last breath i drew,my fate was ever safest in your hands.  Good dog Zeke

I’ve forbidden Junebug from aging. 

It’s not working—every day those little patches of white hairs on her muzzle keep inviting more friends over. 

I know you’ll do what’s best for him, no matter how hard it is on you.

To die in the company of those closest; is more than many of us can hope for. Take strength from that. You deserve it.

May you and your sweet, never-just-a-dog hang in there. To have written something so heartbreaking for him shows how much heart there is between you.

Chris,
I’m so sorry. I love Zeke and I’ve never even met him.  I’ve been following his (lately slow-moving) adventures here and have grown to love him.  Big kisses to him from me.

Much love to you and Zeke!

Chris, I’m so sorry to hear about Zeke. If it helps, he has been the luckiest dog in the world. He has you. All dogs should be so blessed.

Dear Chris, I wish you strength and peace in this difficult moment.  It is so hard to lose a beloved member of your family, one who will never be “just a dog.” Thinking of you.

I’m so sorry.

I was thinking the other day of the sort of “online intimacy” thing, where you can feel you know someone just on the strength of a few posts.

I’ve found it doesn’t only apply to humans (just as friendship and grief don’t)… I’ve grown to love this dog I’ve never met, through the stories you’ve told, the pictures, and your relationship with him, even though if I saw him on the street I would be (initially) terrified.

I was out walking not too long ago, when I came to an open field that was along my way… usually filled with those little ground squirrels, but this time there was a big dog in the field as well. Now normally, after my heart attack, I would turn right around and go back home, or look for a fence or pickup truck to climb over/into, or walk out into traffic or something… but this dog resembled Zeke, so I just stopped at the edge of a field (close to house with a fence, though) and watched for a moment. The dog glanced over at me and thereafter ignored my existence. I took a couple of steps and it still paid no attention to me so I kept going, and walked past a loose, big dog. And on the way home, I walked past it again. Not much to most people, but major for me. “Maybe he’s like Zeke” has become a sort of touchstone for me.

Small comfort, I know - and possibly it appears more self-serving than not, although it’s not meant to be… but know that his spirit, his essential “Zekeness” has reached far beyond just the confines of his life there, and will continue to do so for some time to come.

We walk along this road, a lonely one, and all we see is yet another turn around a dark corner.  Then a friend appears, joins in and walks by our side.  It’s easier to travel this way, easier to lend out a helping hand or paw.  Someone to share with, someone to curl against, someone who takes care of us and lets us take care in return.  It’s good and it’s right.

Then the roads diverge and it hurts to be alone, all the empty places hurt.  But we did what we could, we did the right thing, we helped each other a little, and we got something we treasure, even in memory.

So we walk alone for a while, remembering and missing and wondering if the friend will be there, waiting, when we reach our destinations, if the friend will rise up and meet us with a ferocious wag and lick and a lot of happiness.  And in the meanwhile another friend might turn up and walk alongside us.  For a while.

Oh, Chris.  This is the first time I’ve read your blog, and it has left me sobbing uncontrollably.  There is no such thing as “just” a dog.  A good dog like Zeke is one of the best things in life.  I’m giving my lab Muttboy an extra hug for your good boy.

It hurts so bad, and yet the time you spend with an animal is worth all the pain.  When you sign on to sharing life with an animal, you do it knowing that almost certainly, you will help your animal friend leave this world.  (And, when you think of it, how could you want it any other way?  I so appreciate the efforts of rescue groups in taking care of animals whose people have died and left them behind.)

Zeke - as do all of our animal buddies - needs you now.  Maybe he’ll pass in his sleep.  But these dear friends of ours...well, they don’t got the opposable thumbs, and their little legs can’t reach the accelerator, so they need us to do the hard stuff.  They count on us to do the hard stuff, and I really believe they know we are just doing the best we can, and that they forgive us if we wait too long, or if we act a little too soon.

I don’t have an animal companion of my own, but I take care of a lot of dogs and cats.  Some of them are getting on, some are pups or kits.  Max the Bedlington terrier is 15, and is sturdy but has serious dental problems that I suspect will shorten his life.  Zoie is just 8, but I think she has arthritis in her shoulder, and I love her so much that I worry about a world without her.  Havana is nearly 12 and can’t hike any more.  But she loves to swim.  I will be taking care of her for three weeks (starting next week) and I’m praying for a heat wave so we can swim together every day.

They are not my animals, or my clients, or my clients’ animals...they’re my friends.

Best wishes to you and Zeke.

{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{ Zeke and Chris }}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

He’s a good boy (and so are you), and I’m so sorry.
xo,
ae

Chris, I’m so sorry. I’m an animal lover and have been to that place many times. It never gets easier, and you never stop loving them, and they never stop loving you.

Peace to Zeke. Tell him Shadow and Jubilee, long gone, always in my heart, are waiting to play with him!!

aww.  zekie.

Goddamn Chris, I very rarely cry and certainly not a work.  Your writing has touched me many times and today I cried at my desk for you, Becky, and Zeke.  Thank you for sharing your grief with us.  I really should cry more often.

Chris,
I know you might not read this, but your writing and your love for Zeke is touching. I wrote on my blog about my beloved Sam who left me after 13 years last February. You don’t get over losing a dog after this long. You merely go on.