Early in the dreary day, in my reverie or for real, I received a postcard from heaven. Signed by my dear departed dog, it so began:
Wherever the crowd was, I was not.
But you know that already, don’t you?
Soaring or sulking under your calendars and conferences, meetings and memos, to-do-lists and tours, loves and losses, you had to do what you had to do. It couldn’t wait for the world, least of all for me. I get that. I was just a dog.
But a dog has a dozen things to do too — chasing squirrels, spying on the postman, running amok on the hillside, contemplating by the bench, scheming for world domination with the clever cat, learning new words, penning poems… a multitude of tasks to tick off but none as vital as being there beside you. And I did the same as long as I had breaths beating in my heart.
Now that I am gone, a mere blip on our map of memories, I still love you. Frolicking my four legged body, around the sun that is you, I will always love you.
I’d calm your nerves if nightmares torment you. Or worse still if you have had too many people — acquaintances or friends whatever is the name you give them. I’d put you to bed and watch you sleep as I always have.
Up above the clouds, on this soft grey patch where I am perched now, I hear when they call you ‘too sensitive‘ or ask you ‘to grow up‘. I understand you like they never could. I see the world move on as if nothing happened, from one Frisbee to the next. But you, my boy, relapse for an eternity.
Did I tell you that I love you?
I believe in you like they never could. What if your garden is gone; grass grows on graves too, doesn’t it? And while we are talking graves, rest assured my love will ward off the hooded hands of death too.
Are you listening?