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Not nearly enough time
By Patti Pfeiffer
There on the concrete patio, we lazied side-by-side. My head on her chest, listening to a tired heartbeat, counting every breath. Time froze. I stroked that familiar nose while hugging her so very tight. I wanted her to know, truly sense love's endless depth. She'd given me that.
Against the cold-stone foundation, the warmth of love surfaced as we snuggled together. Gently -- and yes even humanly -- she moved her paw, placing it adoringly over my arm as if holding on tight. Maybe she was comforting me. Yet, I was the one supposedly comforting her.
Sobbing, tears flowing down, pooling on her fluffy black mane, I whispered her name and pleaded too. "Angel don't go. Please don't leave me. There's more than enough, way too many of my beloved canine kids already gathered, waiting at the Rainbow Bridge."
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! I wanted to scream
This? This was the worst, most dreaded, ultimate heart-breaking, turbulent of emotional times for a dog lover -- a pet lover of any and every kind.
She was the first born into our marriage. At six-weeks-old, her silky tongue swathed my face. That exact moment Angel earned her name. The aroma, the sweet simple smell of puppy breath. Of course she captured my heart. A border collie/lab mix, chubby, even klutzy, her runt label made even more desirable, utterly irresistible too.
Oh how did that time fly, fleet away? All those 14.5 years ago. Up until just recently I prayed Angel would make it fit and healthy to the milestone of 15. Now, my prayer's simply for another day.
A retreat, a treasured steal away, a revered relished private time, last weekend, I piled my ole doggy gal into the vehicle and headed east to the cabin, our escape for quality get-lost time. We sat on the porch watching birds perch, listening to the flap of dove wings taking flight, peering at deer meandering by, leaning an ear to hooting owls by night, gazing at the banana yellow moon hanging bright, studying a cantaloupe-colored setting sky, gawking at its transformation into burning orange then a burgundy beauty filtering thru virgin green of spring all the while inhaling -- getting high -- on the aroma of decaying leaves and emerging moss.
Awesome. Magical. Truly a dream. But in a somber, melancholy way, it was a nightmare in the making. We tried to walk like we used and at least attempted a hunt. There at her favorite seeking-ground Angel stood on the pavement, looking my way, back toward the woods then staring back at me while longingly sorrowfully commanding her body to move, begging me to succumb.
Come on Mom, we can do it again, one last time? Her mournful eyes seemed to plead. I knew better. Her energy was zapped, giving in to an aging body, near final time, she wouldn't last.
At 70 pounds no way I could carry her if she were to collapse. Safe my dear wonderful girl. We need to be secure. Let's linger back up the steps, rest on the porch, be quiet and embrace a time without begging turmoil, worrying over a fear, or testing fate.
Intelligent as any dog, I wondered if Angel understood my reluctance, appreciated my stance as we walked away from her piney hunting grounds. She lumbered the opposite way glancing back several times.
Oh my precious precarious Angel, how she loved to hunt. OK, more likely act the part, but in her day, her peak and prime, she was ferocious, hardly one to be tried. Now we only watched, wished and worried the trespassers away. Yet there was an unwelcome intruder I dreaded more than any other.
Death. It comes to one and all.
As our time had whittled away and dwindled down, I'd done my best to plan and pack such precious moments, monumental memories into not nearly enough time. When it comes to the unconditional love of a pet, there's never enough life, hardly any time. How could I squeeze the next 20 years into a fleeting, too quickly collapsing short while?
There comes a time with all that breathe when the only thing remaining is letting go....but I don't want my canine kiddo to go. I can't imagine life without my Angel walking beside me, watching over me.
Patti Pfeiffer is a columnist for Star Local News, freelance writer and author. She can be reached at pattip913@msn.com
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