We always seem to be surprised when someone we love dies,
even if we’d known they were ill. One
moment they’re here, the next moment, they’re gone. We lament the things we didn’t say or do with
them and wish for just ONE MORE DAY to do all of those things. If you wanted to take Grandma on a roller
coaster, you’re probably shit-out-of-luck.
And so it was with Flash, as his days of playing fetch are
long passed. I think we put away the
Frisbee after I clocked him in the side of the head two years ago. He was thrilled to see the children, of
course, but seemingly mystified by the sudden rush of affection.
Lucy had memories of the first two dogs, little snatches of
days gone by. At least that’s what she
says. I remember after I had Brooklyn
put to sleep, she amended her evening prayer by going off-script with an
ad-lib, asking, “And God, help me forgive Daddy for killing my dog. Amen.”
Dan, at 20, had only traces, the sort of remembrances that
make you wonder if you REALLY remembered, or if you’ve seen the pictures and
heard the stories so many times that you ASSUME you remember. There were tears before dinner.
Because all of us were together and because it was a day
devoted to memories, we enjoyed the pancake feast that used to be a Sunday
morning rite. I crisped up the bacon
(setting two strips aside for Flash) while Kath readied the chocolate-chip
infused batter and the scrambled eggs with hot sauce. We sat down to a meal. We laughed as we remembered Flash camping out
under Dan’s chair, as he was the smallest, the messiest, and the most
indifferent of eaters. Sure, there was a
chance someone else would drop a tasty morsel, but with Dan it was a sure
thing, whether it was carelessness or just looking to clear his plate when no
one was looking. Dan revisited those
days by accidentally-on-purpose dropping one of his bacon strips. It appeared that nostalgia of the pork
variety was Flash’s favorite kind.
After dinner and many reminiscences, we retired to the
living room. There didn’t seem to be a
lot left to say and for a change, I didn’t feel the need to fill silences with
the sound of my voice. I think I was
taking strength from the kids in the way they bravely faced the situation. I was able to hold it together for most of
the evening. The hardest part about it,
Kath and I agreed later, was seeing how bad the kids were hurting. Still, they’d come to mourn together with us,
when it’s a lot easier to beg off and say you just couldn’t get away from your
adult responsibilities. In the midst of
family chaos, it’s such a gift to see young people with character.
While Lucy just let the tears flow when they came, Dan tried
to deflect his feelings in profanity-laden outbursts while pacing angrily
through the house. It was almost like a
person looking for Wi-Fi in a dead zone…he was just looking for a hot spot…some
place in the house that hurt less. I
followed him to the kitchen. There was
no hot spot there, either. I held this
big man in my arms as he cried, his thick chest bouncing off of mine as he sobbed,
inconsolable.
The hour grew late and I knew they had to get home to get
back to their own lives. I assured them
that as soon as they left, Flash would lay down and go to sleep in his bed,
thrilled with the special day he had had.
There was time after the collection of car keys and purses for another
hug, another kiss, not just for the dog, but for each of us. Together we had raised him, together, we were
saying goodbye. Together, we grieved and
celebrated.
Tomorrow, Kath and the kids will all be at work, though my
wife plans to be here when Flash departs.
I have taken the day off, to lend a normalcy to his last day. Though tomorrow is a Monday, it will be like
my writing Fridays where we rise early, nap freely and spend a lot of time
outside. Both of us will need that
normalcy, even though there’s nothing standard about it.
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