Dogs Don’t Need To Ask. Why Would They?
For Mom on the day of Sadie’s death.
I’ll tell you a story about a Scottish Skye terrier named Sadie.
I was talking to my parents
via text message. Or “THE text message,” as Grandma says.
I was thinking, Sometimes when
you are, as Wilder says, “Broken on the
wheels of living,” it’s a special kind of grace to have a fluffy face greeting you at the door.
I wondered, when Sadie showed
up, if she was an actual Muppet. But there
was no hand up her rump. No strings attached to her
awkwardly long, caterpillar frame. That was
fourteen years ago. The age I feel every morning when I
notice I forgot to do the dishes again.
Dogs don’t care if you forgot to
do the dishes, do they? Sadie didn’t care about
much but, when she did care, it was
obvious, wasn’t it, Mom?
Sadie would let out little, awkward
barks, like the pop of popcorn in a pan on the stove top in the kitchen in the double-wide.
Sadie wasn’t scary, no
way. She would startle me, though, from time
to time. From under the table,
lying at Mom’s feet, popping popcorn at
whoever dared to enter the castle.
Mom?
Hi, Mom. It’s me!
How have you been?
How are you feeling?
Mom, you get asked that a lot, don’t you?
“How are you feeling?”
Sadie never asked you that because dogs don’t need to ask.
What a (amazing) grace (how sweet the sound)! What a
relief, huh?
I’m sorry, Mom, that I ask you
“How are you feeling?” so often. You are more
than how you are feeling.
Sadie knew this, in as much
as a dog can know things.
She would dance for you.
Front door choreography.
Her whole Muppety (I don’t think this is a word) self hopping, the fur covering
her beady black eyes bouncing like a Disney dog’s
would.
Dad texts his children, “Sadie went to heaven today.”
I felt that. There are no
new words to say about death.
Mom, you said, “Your dad saw her flop to the ground. At first we thought she had passed but she was still breathing, just shallowly. Then we laid her down in her bed.”
Dogs don’t need to ask, do they, Mom?
Sadie didn’t need to ask. She knew.
It must be nice in this world, where everyone feels broken on the
wheels of living, to have someone who knows.
Sadie knew, Mom, didn’t she? She knew, better than anything
else she knew, how to be yours.
Good girl. Silly
girl. Happy girl.
She was yours and you were hers.
It’s a special kind of grace to have a fluffy face greeting you at the door. She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t poke or prod, inject or inspect.
She dances.
She pops like popcorn.
She lies at your feet.
She’s awkward.
It’s a beautiful and happy grace.
So, Mom, the next time you feel broken on the
wheels
of living, I hope you’ll remember that Sadie
never asked “How are you feeling, Darlene?”
Because she didn’t need to. Why would she?
And neither do we.
