For the Indescribable Blessing He Has Been

It had, we knew, been months in coming, though we tried our best not to dwell on its approach.  We leaned into the mindfulness -- the sacredness -- of each day; grateful for the gift of however many we would be blessed to have.  Even the most routine dimensions -- opening the food cans, preparing the pills, filling the water dish -- seemed special; the occasional sickness cleanup, a privilege.  Which is to say that we tried our best to pay attention -- to the feel of the coat, the look of the eyes, the scamper of the feet across the hardwood floor, the commonest mannerisms of everyday.  But since March, when the Vet soberly told us that Barrington had lymphoma, we have been conscious of this dark and inexorable approach.  Chemotherapy and eventually acupuncture notwithstanding, there was a thunderous "YES" that would, one indeterminate day, overspeak our determined "NO."

Which is not to suggest that we were prepared when the day finally confronted us.  We simply had no more conscionable ways to delay it.  The cancer, as the Vet would later describe it, was moving faster than the medicine, and was pathetically overtaking him.  The day, then, dawned with a sober resignation and acquiescent submission.  And to our eternal gratitude, it was, despite our dread of it, the loveliest experience that anyone could ask for. 

When we arrived, the young women working the reception area were already crying.  Though we always believed that Barrington was incredibly special, their affection through the years had always seconded our admittedly biased opinion.  He had always hurried through the weigh-in so that he could hustle behind the counter for a greeting -- and perhaps a treat.  They knew his name, welcomed his kisses, and indulged his nosey affection.  This day, however, their halting greetings were sober; one kept her back to us, though the tissue at her eye and the trembling of her shoulders betrayed the grief that permeated the room.  The doctors emerged from the back -- two of them; their number born out of affection, not necessity -- explained the steps and showed us into the room that had been prepared for us.  They accomplished the initial procedures, and then waited for us, encouraged us, appreciated us, comforted us -- their tears flowing along with ours.  We stroked his fur, we held held him as gently as the forcefulness of our love would allow, we gazed into his eyes, we spoke his name.  Finally, we nodded to each other, and then to the doctors.

And he relaxed.  And then he relaxed some more, easing into peacefulness with the same gentle, submissive grace as he had lived the whole of his life.  "He has passed," one of the doctors confirmed, and, through our sobbing, we marveled at the beauty of it all. 

The absence already is thunderous, in the little and countless ways we knew, but now realize in greater contrast, our lives were ordered around his company.  There is a stillness; an almost aimlessness that attends, absent his schedule and presence to guide us.  Our lives, we remembered, were practically perfect before he came to us, a recognition at the core of any hesitancy we felt about having a dog in the first place.  It's not that we don't know how to be happy without him, or won't find the ways to recover it.  It's just that he added a dimension -- a color, a flavor -- we fully realize will be irreplaceable.  In the end, it wasn't merely the addition of a dog that made the difference; it was the particularity of Barrington. 

Barrington, who came into our lives with a drooped forward ear and a barnyard smell, and left our lives with a hole the size of heaven itself.  The only emotion stronger, just now, than our grief -- the only force sharp enough to cut through our tears -- is gratitude...

...for the joy that he has inspired...
...the love that he has returned...
...the forgiveness he has never hesitated to offer...
...and the blessing -- the finally indescribable blessing -- that he has been.