1
I don't know if there is such a place as a heaven for dogs,
although the world's beliefs would have you believe
it comes down to a clinical discourse on faith and theology
and the definitions of such words as "afterlife," "salvation," and "soul,"
and a particular animated film from the 1980s definitively argued
for the affirmative.
Still....
All I know is that I had him for the past 10 years of my life,
which would have been 70 years for him.
(All things being equal, too, I don't think I could have
put up with me for those 70 long years.)
And so for that--if for no other reason--
he earned his eternal reward in dog heaven, I think,
if there is such a place.
2
On matters of faith, it is never simple math.
Take the Judeo-Christian Bible, for instance,
if one chooses to believe the stories.
I am aware of the importance of symbols, though,
and that throughout the book's long text, if looking for it,
you will find over 700 references to the number 7.
In terms of that book's circular and circuitous mythology,
that number would appear to be of some importance, then.
"Divine," perhaps.
"God-made," to some.
"Perfect," in a way.
"Complete," in manners no other number can seem to mean,
no matter the faith
or the math.
3
He liked to have his ears scratched.
He would lean into it, he loved it so.
He lost himself, bending into the pressure and the weight of it.
He would moan and then look up at me when I removed my hand,
his brown, soft eyes that burrowed and said,
"What?... That's it?"
He liked to lay in the patches of sunlight
as the day would move across the sky.
He would move along with it, when he could,
and when it appeared in elongated geometric designs
spilled across the carpet.
He sought out warm light,
with the wisdom of The Beatles,
following the sun.
4
He loved to go for walks, although he was terrible at it.
I used to see other dog-owners with their charges
at the end of leashes
complacently at peace, strolling along sidewalks,
dog-calm, cool, collected.
And I wondered how they did it.
For he could never manage that.
Our leash was always taut as a plumb-line
or a rich fishing line, him out front, pulling me forward,
nose alert to everything, not enough time in the day to take it all in,
eyes backward at slowpoke me, struggling to keep pace,
with a mixed gaze of frustration and concern my way,
as if to say,
"Are you all right? Come on.... Catch up."
5
On our last walk together
I didn't need the leash, but I attached it to his collar on ceremony.
It would occur the day before I helped him to his sleep,
and I had no idea, then, of such words as
"ruptured spleen" or "critical anemia."
I just knew there was something wrong.
With a slackened line, it was an unusually slow walk for us.
Haggard. Determined. It was work for him to take a step.
We didn't go far--to the end of the sidewalk and back.
I carried him the last of the way, in through the door,
and lay him down on his bed,
which he also loved beyond compare
and from which he would never stand again
on his own will.
6
Dogs seem to know things we don't.
As much as we love them,
I believe they love us more.
Seven times more, by my rough accounting.
And they forgive us seven-times-seventy times,
more than we can humanly comprehend.
They sense things seven times stronger.
They feel things seven times greater.
They are, after all, seven years ahead of us
in what it means to be
Divine,
God-made,
Perfect,
Complete.
7
You know it's going to hurt, this inevitability of love--
so irrational and unconditional and true,
the very meaning of the words, in fact--
but what you can't possibly know is how much.
I have already been asked several times
if I'm going to get another dog.
And my immediate response is, "No."
But in my heart, maybe, "Yes."
In time.
Maybe in seven years, I wonder.
Maybe then I will know what he already knew.
Maybe then, like some indelible image from Whitman,
I will find him ahead of me, as always, patiently looking back,
and I will finally be able to catch up to him.
