Last week I told Jonathan that I wanted to scatter the ashes of two of our dogs along the banks of the James. I had in my head that we would zip our coats, pull on old boots and skip down to the river’s edge, with Eli and Syd kicking up autumn leaves along the way. Further, I had thought about what I might say to honor my fallen canines and how I might explain to my children the significance of returning Molly-Girl and Big Mason to the trails they loved to traipse and the waters in which they splashed and swam so zealously in life. In my mind’s rehearsal, the splendid Fall foliage, crisp breeze and rapids lapping the rocks could have been the myriad colors, breaths and loving licks that my old hound and peculiar cattle dog shared with us through the years.
On Sunday, the careful and complete deconstruction of my poetic vision of remembrance began early. I trumpeted to the troops to pull it together for the excursion. Syd responded by thrashing on the floor over the fit, or rather ill-fit of her denim capris, and she hurled a hand-me-down tennis shoe in my direction when I offered assistance with the laces. The mere mention of sporting a jacket incited her further. I thought to check her forehead for the famed “666” skin tattoo, but I didn’t want to get that close to the writhing heap on the hardwoods lest it start snarling and spitting and striking. Meanwhile, Eli asked me no less than twenty-two times if we could fish once we got there, and he also wanted to wear his trunks as it had been a stretch since he had waded in the waters. Given that it was forty degrees (if that) and we had not one, but two dogs to memorialize, my answer to my son’s relentless requests remained a fixed and firm no, though I secretly admired both his enthusiasm and determination. Downstairs I could hear Jonathan jingling the keys, signaling that he was ready to roll the train forward, and probably had been for quite some time.
Finally, the Petty Four piled into the car and began the journey. Jonathan asked if I wanted to explain to the kids what we were doing. I put the two urns full of ashes on the floor, inhaled deeply and turned to look at Eli and Syd. I explained that we were taking Molly-Girl, one of their dogs, and Big Mason, my old rescued greyhound who they hadn’t met, back to their favorite spot for dashing and dipping. Thus, in the future whenever we raced down the dirt paths, jumped along the flat rocks or swam in the water, our four-legged, furry friends would be with us, too. I asked my children to think of what they might say as part of our makeshift tribute. Eli spoke of his love for Molly, but worried that he might not be able to say much about the dog he never knew. Syd asked if cats liked to swim, too. In those moments I was grateful to have on oversized sunglasses to hide the tears welling in my eyes. I am proud of how my children handled the concept of death, and I am awed by their takes on life and living. The elder is a peaceful little warrior; he seems to build on the past and hold lives lost in his six-year-old heart. But I like Syd’s approach, too. She is a little life drinker, a keep-a’goin’-what’s-next-kind-of-gal. As usual, the students were teaching the teacher.
We parked, climbed through the gates at the 42nd Street access and spilled down to the trail in the chilly morning air. We made our way to a quiet, open spot on the river. When we took out Molly’s ashes, the kids’ level of interest heightened like some magic was underway. Eli and Syd said their goodbyes and I love yous and each took a turn pouring dust from the plastic bag before bounding down the bank. Jonathan shared his thoughts, too, but I couldn’t seem to find the words about my little dog’s kindness, propeller-like tail wag and her patience with my children. Instead, I was cracking up at the amount of ash now covering my jeans and boots thanks to the wind, and I was fearful that Eli and/or Syd were soon to fall in the frigid waters as they precariously perched two rocks over and launched boulders into the gentle rapids.
When we got to Big Mason, a courageous, giant, fawn greyhound who heroically battled cancer and an amputated leg, among other amazing trials, I was shaking partly from the low temperature, partly from raw emotion and partly with laughter because Eli had reappeared, taken the urn, and was feverishly dumping it, without fanfare, into the river. I remembered Jonathan telling Eli to let me scatter some, too, for Mason was my dog, but I also remembered not pushing to do so. I had already let go, fully surrendered.
By that time, Syd’s zipper had broken; a thorn had scraped her cheek, and streams of mucus poured from her nose. Jonathan had stepped into the river accidentally, while trying to keep her from falling in. Eli was still talking about fishing. And I was covered in the ashes of two dead dogs. We trekked back to the car and rolled homeward – snotty, bloody, cold, muddy, wet, and dusty, but already talking about our next adventure together, one likely to be every bit as scattered.
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Dish out some happy and be kind, good people. More later.
Dish out some happy and be kind, good people. More later.
I'm crying now, too, thinking of your loss and of our sweet Bear's ashes downstairs, waiting for just the right occasion to send them on the winds. Hope they're all romping somewhere together now.
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I recall the time when you talked about how you had rescued, if memory serves, at least one greyhound, those many years ago at CNN. That so much life has been lived and loved in the interim since, so much experience and bonding and separating has been endured, is staggering to consider. I grieve for your loss, Sister, and am grateful to God that you are surrounded by a supportive, loving family. These day-in-the-life moments you are sharing are so rich in reality, and I deeply appreciate being able to read them and be invisibly present like this. It's a true blessing. Keep doing what you do.
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