|'s Blog|| | |
12/31/10 at 07:34 PM by oncedarkness
| Just tonight, I got home from a brief trip to San Antonio. My bags were on my shoulder, and I was headed to the door, where I would soon find Pierre, the dog who can grow the gnarliest dreadlocks within a month of not getting a haircut. We have no idea how old the little dude is. We can only account for the time that heís blessed us. I got him in the second grade. Iím now twenty-one. |
When I got to the door, something was wrong. Somehow he escaped from the backyard while we were gone and he was lying motionless. We helped him stand up, and I could see that he didnít have the energy to look up at me. The dark brown eyes that normally danced with mischief for the first time didnít meet mine.
Only a few hours later am I writing this, so I donít know anything besides assumptions. After assessing his wounds, it looks like he got hit by a car. Itís clear that unless God intervenes, Pierre is going to die.
I thought about this rationally. Heís an old dog. Weíre lucky to have had him for this longÖespecially when nothing was promised to us; we got him as a stray. He chased a womanís car that we knew, and she gave him to us. I donít think he ever stopped chasing after my affection. Every time I came into the room, he would lick my hand and then roll onto his back and paw his snout until I rubbed his belly. Despite my attempts, Iíve still been unable to catch up with the amount of love heís shown me.
After everyone went to bed, I got tired of being reasonable and calculated. I am probably going to lose one of my best friends. He was this longer than anyone else in my life.
He was boyís best friend. He was teenagerís best friend. He is this manís best friend.
When this collided into my mind, I was drawn to a Mae song: ďA Melody, A Memory.Ē I went into the uncharacteristically warm air of the eve of New Yearís Eve and put in my earbuds. A few notes slipped out and my tear ducts ruptured. I donít even know where from. The lyrics took me to the places and stages that Pierre was in my life. He was at every significant one, if not just behind the curtain.
If I liked a girl, he was always my confidant. When I got home from a cross country race, he licked my salty legs. When I played football, he bit the neighborhood boy that dared to tackle me.
The song reminded me that these memories are like ďnotes in time that make a sweet melody.Ē
This small hairy mess watched me grow up, and now Iím watching him go down.
I repeat the song for the fifth time. I run my hand down his body, away from the scabs from this anonymous accident. A tear navigates around my smile as I consider that since I got him in the second grade all the way to my junior year of college, Pierre has been anything but an anonymous accident.
As he lies in his bed, I move the hair out of his face so I can see the windows to his soul. He slowly moves his warm caramel eyes into my own, those same eyes that watched me grow into who I will be for the rest of my days.
Along with the song, Pierreís last few notes were trickling out. It came to the last line of the song. Right on cue, Pierreís gaze reaches me as if to sing along with it and say that after he is gone, itís time for
ďA new time and place to make a million new memoriesÖĒ
Pierre, thanks for the sweet melodies you made for 14 years with me.