Recollections of Agnes one year after her passing.

Another February morning in Stratford and the sky glows white, brutally glaring through tall spindly trees into the second story window.  I pull up an old patchwork quilt high around my ears and sink back into bed – a wonderful bed, high off the floor, as warm and comfortable as this sweet, quiet, Victorian bedroom, splendidly adorned with regal blue and burnt amber flowered wallpaper, white shiny woodwork, antique cherry wood side tables and a black drop-leaf desk. I love it. I love all of it. Especially the scratching at the door because I know it’s Agnes.

Can my To Do List draw me from this embracing cocoon? A piece of my favorite lemon meringue pie? The guarantee of an amazing deep body massage? No. Not even a full frontal parade of intellectual body builders, ice cold champagne in a hot bubbling outdoor spa in Whistler, or a ten minute chat with the Pope. But, a good morning greeting from Agnes? Absolutely.

Cuddle cuddle rub rub. Her tail wags wildly as excitement leads her into the room circling the long tapestry rug for a place to land. “Good morning, Agnes! Good morning sweet girl.” A night of chaotic dreams over, Agnes’ energy sweeps through me forcing sweet nothings to escape from my lips.

Allow me to explain. I haven’t had a pet since I was nine. And Agnes, being a temporarily shared one, is more than a pet – she’s Divine Intervention. Who else can I give unconditional love to in such a safe affectionate manner? I can’t very well put my thirty-one year old son on my lap and rub his belly. And God knows he’s no longer comfortable holding my hand or giving me a hug that lasts more than a nano-second.  My precious mother’s off doing the salsa in the sky. And friends?  Well, you can’t very well bury your head in their ribs unless you want a good kick in the head or an invitation to see a psychiatrist.  But I get unsolicited kisses from Agnes and the sheer joy of sharing space with a beautiful furry soul whose only agenda in life is: to love.

She pads behind me as I cross the landing to the smaller bedroom where my laptop lives. One split-second and ffffftttt, she’s up on the bed as I sit down at the desk beside her. Now she switches into Nesting Mode -- pulls back the blue and white rose-covered coverlet with her nose, paws the blueberry cotton under-cover, finds just the right fold, the precise amount and placement of flat space, mound space, clear space, no space, then kicks out her hind legs trying to dig a hole, to bury what? and swims around in circles testing it out finally settling down into a warm sweet coma. Excitement to coma in 15 seconds.

My desk clock registers noon. I’ve been writing this little snapshot of Agnes for longer than I thought. Time to make a call. A client call. My To Do List has begun. And it’s okay. I get to glance at Agnes, curled into a ball, a breathing puff of freckled sweetness.  The kind that makes going to work manageable, even exciting, because I know there is always a place to come back to, where love waits like a warm hand-sewn quilt.