I buried my dog today. Not the first time and certainly won’t be the last, but this time was the hardest. A constant companion for over 18 years is not easily forgotten.
Malcolm died a few days ago. He was not quite 2 years old and I only met him once. A boy like Malcolm deserved a dog like Phoebe. Whether I did I can’t say but she was a gift that I’ll always treasure, a reminder that good and bad things happen that are beyond anyone’s control. They cannot be planned, only accepted. Malcolm, you could see it in his smile, accepted and appreciated the short life he was given. He was a gift to his parents and he received their love in return. That’s all they, anyone, could give. They just couldn’t give him time.
A long and meaningful life, that’s our normal hope. Some of us will get that wish, time multiplied by accomplishment. A dog lives for his or her master. I often thought that Phoebe would follow me into an inferno or off a cliff, her fierce devotion, loyalty, unflinching trust, evident to the end. Her body gave out, not her soul.
One wishes, at times like this, for a Heaven or Reincarnation to be true so that there might be another chance for beautiful souls to meet, like Malcolm and Phoebe for instance. But we can’t have, or assume, that luxury. We’re left with that one chance to embrace those gifts that come our way and make the most of them while they are with us.
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