He hurts, body, mind, and soul. Death has made its introduction and he has given it a knowing nod. At this moment he’s in a hospice unit. The head of his bed is elevated and he’s in the consoling company of his dog, Emerson. The dog proved quickly to be polite and calm company, such that a special grant was extended, allowing the man’s precious pet to see him through. Like many such creatures, Emerson is, and has long been, a consistent and intuitive conduit of unreserved love for which the man has been ever grateful. Emerson is an all-black, curly-haired, miniature labradoodle and he knows of no other means than that of love and affection. These co-joined souls, this man and dog, they have been daily companions for better than ten years.
Presently, the man’s right hand is giving absent-minded caress to Emerson. The man is gazing out the light-filled window, looking upon a resplendent maple tree in its autumn glory. After a deep breath followed by a sincere sigh, the man reports to his now alert dog these whispered words, “The only way to have a friend is to be one. Ralph Waldo may have said it, but you, you my dear little Emerson, you live it.” It’s obvious to the man, it’s apparent in his dog’s extra careful manner; he can see the dog knows; he can see his loving friend senses both life and death are at hand.
The man now settles his head back and closes his eyes. Still, his right hand caresses Emerson while his mind slides through time. He begins to recall the many dogs he’s had the great good fortune to have known, recalling a lengthy succession of love and heartbreak.
He first recalls Blacky, an unimaginatively named Black Lab. Nonetheless, he has always adored the name. He had not known Blacky, only knew of him. Blacky was a dog that lived and preceded the man’s birth. Blacky had been the dog that shared life with the man’s parents when they were yet newlyweds. There are only two stories to recount about Blacky: one funny, the other tragic. The man settles on the good humor, forgetting the tragic.
As the story goes, the newlyweds shared their home with not just Blacky the dog, but also with Polly the parrot. Such uncreative names, ironically, strike the man as a kind of real genius: Blacky the dog and Polly the parrot; simple, perfect. Blacky, reportedly, was prone to being habitually underfoot in the kitchen, resulting in the common refrain of “Damn dog” by the man’s then mother-to-be. The otherwise mute Polly the parrot, as a result, had a vocabulary of just two words, announcing a resounding “Damn dog” as only a squawking parrot can exclaim.
The man loved this story. He loved imaging his parents as newlyweds and as animal lovers. He imagined a busy mother, perhaps pregnant, bustling about a kitchen with a lazy old lab and a noisy old parrot. Such was the likely scene while she went about making things as right as she could for dinner with her then new husband.
The man, as a child, had seen little of this imagined fondness, this fondness which he liked to think had made his life possible. He imagined there had once been ample love among the husband, wife, dog, and parrot, love leading to bread, intent, conception. He imagined his very life took its shape from a busy little kitchen bustling with love. This he has chosen to believe.
The stricken man went on with his many recollections, re-visiting each of the many dogs he knew and loved, recounting silently of Gallagher, Tami, then Jessie, Black Labs all. He conjures, and then sees again in this moment, a six-month-old Jessie, recently spayed, with her jet-black torso girdled in white as she playfully snatches towels from beachgoers. He smiles some as he sees her again, seeing her as she’s running joyously up and down the beach with the towel streaming banner-like, several laughing bathers in hot pursuit. He then recalls Duke, Rex, then Hilda, German Shepherds all. He sees old war-torn Duke with his ragged and shredded left ear, a fiercely protective dog who took action at every moment of threat.
These memories give but a brief balm to his pains. These recollections of love ease his heavy heart, for he’s reckoning with death. Then, in a brief shudder, the man’s body and mind seize just for an instant. His hand falls from Emerson and he breathes his last. Emerson then knowingly crawls, ascending with great care, till he is nestled upon the man’s chest. The dear little dog then begins, ever so gently, to nose and lick his departed friend’s cheek. Dog and man; true to the end.
BIO: Paul is a retired RN who resides in Florida and has one remaining ambition. Paul intends to recreate, in fiction, the once working-class village of Minot Beach where he spent his summers. As a child, it had been a place of summer shacks as well as nearby resort like amenities such as restaurants and lodgings. The beauty of the place remains, hence these days Minot has become a year-round haven for the well-to-do, many of whom enjoy photography and taking their dogs on walks along the beach. However, the summer village is long gone. It had been a glorious summer destination peopled by both the rich and the poor and it deserves to be remembered.
Emerson
