Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12
Today Josie and I slept in and by the time we got over to the cemetery, our pack was just leaving. That would be Gabriel, Hazel, and Max, plus the owners who love them. In the dog world, as in the human, if you snooze, you lose. But Josie’s days are numbered, and I cursed myself as I waved goodbye. The morning walk is something I know Josie loves, and it is my responsibility to get her there on time. I love my girl so much. She is my family, my best friend, the recipient of my sorrows, the sharer in my good news. She doesn’t ask for much in return.
The number of her days is, and always was, a mystery to me, but the finiteness came into sharp focus when the vet diagnosed her with an aggressive joint tumor. Of the two kinds, this is the bad kind. I’ve written about this before, but I keep coming back, trying to understand it in a different way, trying to reach a different outcome.
Poor Josie. That morning after her pals left, those words slipped from my mouth. I pitied her lack of playmates.
But Josie galloped ahead, with her one gimpy leg where that damned tumor is growing, and then did her signature move, rolling in the snow. She didn’t feel like it was “poor Josie” time. Of the days that are meted out to her, those countable days, she is not spending it feeling sorry for herself.
I felt my dog’s wisdom in that snowy morning. After leaving the cemetery, we walked around the block and passed by Bea, whose tiny body shook sideways with barking. We passed by sweet Cody, rescued from terrible conditions in the Midwest. A few weeks before, Cody had run away and was missing for several days. The whole neighborhood had been on high alert. He is still timid, his ears flat against his head and his tail between his legs.
We passed by Kramer in his yard with his one ear up, and one ear down. We passed Archie and Tilly, King Charles Cocker Spaniels. And across the street there was Fergus, a dignified Corgi.
Josie always shows me how to be, even if I don’t always know it myself. Josie shows me her known-only-to-her enemy list—the two German shepherds down the block, for starters. She She stops in her tracks. But she saves her growling for play. For dogs She never pretends to like someone. She doesn’t do polite.
After my divorce, I moved to this neighborhood, and one by one I met the Pack. One of us dubbed us the Cemetery Ladies because we meet and walk around a historic cemetery. We keep the dead company as we walk a loop or two around them. But once my girl is gone, I won’t have a reason to bundle up against the cold with poop bags and dog treats.
I won’t hear the news about one pack member’s new floral design studio. I won’t hear her call out gudis (Swedish for treat) to the dogs. I won’t hear about another pack member’s grandson taking his first step. Another’s impending retirement and launch of a new business. Another’s deep appreciation of Flannery O’Connor and Italian Renaissance art.
How will I live without my Josie?
Where will I go on my own, without the pack, without my girl?
She has kept me here, and there’s no dog to replace her. It will be time to go, I know that. Spend more time in Idaho and help care for my elderly dad. Maybe move to Brooklyn to be near my daughter.
Thank you, Josie, for your constant love in my life, helping me through the loneliest time in my life, where I trembled at night, listening to the creaking of an unfamiliar house, and you pressed up against the mattress on the floor, my sidecar guard. Thank you for leading me to the Pack, where I learned to be one of a group of women, each with her own triumphs and sorrows. Where I learned about Fra Angelico and how to arrange a wild bouquet, about God and books and how to rake leaves. Thank you for teaching me to number the days I have with you so that I don’t look back to think this time with you passed and I didn’t feel every moment of it.