Well its been a bit wild here.
Remodel Hell has mostly finished and what needs touch up can F***ing wait as I have had enough of home invasion by albeit well meaning, polite and capable workmen whose tasks required me for the better part of 12 weeks to stop living in my home while I managed it as a job site shuffling x pens and dogs. And Husband also erupted with a knee scream which seemed for a long time to have no wish but replacement but as the surgery gauntlet approached the cut date, his knee said quite loudly, “Your self imposed PT has lessened my ache and I can wait til the Spring for chopping.” Relief wave hit about timing of Winter and Hobbled Husband whose balance might find ice unfriendly not to mention relief about not having to scramble to get his recovery floor in shape after the rip apart for Remodel Hell.
And then there was Zoi pup arrival from across the World which happened last Sunday. Five days later, Lady Zoi and Zoi Pup have found their dance. Lady was Little as a Pup and I find “Love” is what I call when reaching for Zoi Pup. So they are Little and Love, the L&L.
But Stryder…eleven mornings I have waked to an empty bedside. Its that moment in our day which was all about just the two of us. When he would come to stand bedside and wait for me to rouse sensing his great Love and ask for head rub all alone, just us. And CasaNoah, his great duckle love would feel him near and root out from covers to be kissed by that snout as big as his whole self. They loved eachother.
Eleven mornings without that Snout. But somehow he is there, in that room we always slept with his great form on that couch footing our bed. Every night of his life he was the Guardian of Love and Dreams for all of us he carried in his Soul.
Dear Sweet Jesus, I do miss his form.
But have this eerie sense he is here. The corner of my eye, the whimper in his Zoi, the question in the Wizard’s eyes, the yard he roared his romp dozing all the others down so he could prance his glee above their conquered forms.
I do miss him.
But he is here.
Five years ago, I bid against an army of coveters of a charcoal portrait. Its frame is dark and carved and the ghost like image floating in a field of white I knew at once was Stryder. He was just two and live right then as I ratcheted up my bid to grasp this image against the field of wanters. The money was to go to research so I bid the sky and won. It has hung on my walls while he did sleep, and rule the rooms it sees.
And now that he is not here in flesh, his image hangs upon a wall across from windows which frame vast volcanic views reflected in its glass. His image floats amidst reflections as my heart reaches for him through the ether.
And there he is. Suspended floating in that frame. Always and forever.
He was a Great Big Dog.
A friend met him a week before he passed sent me a poem I will share here. Its not a Rainbow poem. not at all. Its Kipling railing at the pain of losing Beloved Dog.
I share it here. Its yours also to hold or pass along as you feel need.
The Power of The Dog
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie-
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
to risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find -its your own affair-
But…you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone-wherever it goes-for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more we do grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short -time loan is as bad as a long-
So why in-Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
—-Joseph Rudyard Kipling, 1922
Tea With Me 