To be the guardian of a dog is a two way street that runs further than imagination can sometimes picture.

It had been such a long wearisome time.  She was drained past the edge of her final reservoir of dreams.  She wearily pulled that stray, stubborn lock back from her lined forehead.  "Oh dear my God, where am I to find the strength to face another night?"  She bowed her head and rested her face on the cold, unforgiving surface of the table.  Just for a moment she dropped her guard and tears of quiet, unuttered pain glistened through her lashes.  The losses outweighed the gains and she ached with silent misery.  

First had been her Dad.  Too soon the brilliant mentality had been stilled, the strong back at final rest.  "Oh Dad, wait until tomorrow" she had cried.  But that last, soft sigh as his spirit fled to the heavens haunted her sleep, clouded her eyes.  The strong tendons of her arms tightened in response to the sharp stab of remembered pain and loss. She’d had a star named for him and slowly gained comfort from its gentle glow, promises of future meetings.  

Next her Mother.  Barely through the mourning, as faint joy flickered and the winds of change fanned the embers of hope, sickness struck.  The crisis time had come when her mother’s heart stuttered and her eyes turned to the heavens in search of her father’s star.  Her mother’s eyes also gazed up and out.  Whispered softly, the words "I’m coming dear" from her mother’s pillow had torn anew her tattered pain and reduced her inner courage to a faint memory.  "Not today, tomorrow Mom, tomorrow" refrained through her thoughts.  

She lifted her head, her hand slipping downward in the automatic caress of a dog’s head a lifetime of companionship had taught her.  When the pain was too much, a dog had always been there.  Weary fingers had found strength in that bond.  The unconditional love of a dog-willed hope, joy back into empty existence.  Her tears gushed forth, a hot geyser of torment.  Her hand fanned the empty air with futile hope.  The dog was too old, too sick to sit next to her anymore.  That great heart labored now not on her behalf, but only to push one more lung full of air through, a little more oxygen to keep the graying form alive.  "Tomorrow," she thought, "I’ll be strong enough to let him go tomorrow".  Spasms of pain rippled through her and she dropped her head again.  

Limply her hand fell over the table edge, fingers drooping.  As she prepared to sink into the morass of self-pity a strong poke pushed the remembered weight of his muzzle against her palm.  Startled, her eyes flew toward his face.  The fierce glow of his eyes was noticeable.  Love lit his face and ignited hers.  "What are you doing up old dog?"  She softly traced the well-known contours of his head.  He poked again, insistently. For a second his image wavered, rippled into many dogs.  With wondering she recognized some from the past, some yet to be met, all promising to share love with her.  "Wherever you are we will be" their eyes promised.  His eyes glowed with that promise. He was not leaving her alone, the great eternal covenant of the dogs offered hope. 

She heaved herself up and headed down the hall, the old dog wheezing beside her. The ghosts of past and future dogs danced in the shadows around them.  "She’s almost strong enough now,” the old dog thought.  His tail faintly wagging, he walked her toward tomorrow.

© Carol M Chapman