The Passing of a Friend

It's been about three weeks since we lost our good friend Mickey, and while the idea of his loss no longer surprises me, I find the old routines hard to break. First thing in the morning, I head to the front door to let him out. Last thing at night, same story.

And from time to time I swear--honestly--I hear him yawn or sneeze or stretch and shake. And the skittering of his claws on the hardwood floors? No, that's just the crackle of a plastic bag in the other room. When the doorbell rings? No barking. There has definitely been an emptiness lingering around this house the last three weeks. Especially when our nineteen-month-old calls out, "Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!" every time he sees the pup's picture. One of our son's first words: "Mickey."

I think about the way the new daffodils in the backyard this week seemed to have come out of nowhere. A couple of warm days, then presto: flowers. A death is like that, too. The work of a force as inevitable as the seasons. We didn't see this one coming.

But the end was peaceful, and we're grateful for that. And now that we have his ashes, we're just waiting for these sloppy wet days to give way to sunshine and warmth before we take him to his favorite place for walks and give him back to the earth. I like the thought of him out there in the high Nebraska grasses, out with the grasshoppers and the ticks, out in some big patch of coneflowers with the bees droning on all summer. And I like the thought of how much happiness he brought our little family just by being himself, a dog, a sometimes mean little critter with a dog's fierce loyalty and love. How many nights might I have missed a moon or a chill breeze or the sound of robins if I hadn't have had to take him out before bed? How many friends would my wife and I have never made in our neighborhood if not for walking him and stopping to say hello to fellow dog lovers? He was just a dog, it's true. But his life, like much of his wiry hair, has touched every part of our lives. You'll be missed, bud.