[Photo is of my own beloved dog, Cerys, now gone so many years, almost 20. But she lives on in my heart as if it were yesterday, my Cer-Bear 1991-2007]
For You Who Have Loved Old Dogs
Old Andy is a big dog, black as a
night sky in the most lonesome winter months.
He is fat even though he doesn't eat
much these days. His man is one of the best
folks I know. They were hiking deep in the
high mountains when good Andy's back legs stopped
their work. The old dog folded himself down
on the path, his eyes lighting on his mani's
to apologize. My friend carried him
nearly a mile, this great sprawl of blessed
animal, who must have lain in his arms
both thankful and ashamed. They collapsed
together at the end of the steep trail,
holding on to each other, exhausted.
I'm thankful for you who take care of old
dogs. I'm glad you have one another when
you need a friend the most, that you've had times
of stillness, watching the world, that you know
the grace of silence together. I thank
the infinite eternity and the
God of my understanding for people
like you, who carry them when they need you.
Three times now I've held an old dog
in my arms as they left me. Three times
I felt their heartbeats fade away on my palm,
witnessing a shooting star become
more darkness. The end. All lost and gone.
I've grieved for each of them just as much as
I have for people I've loved. I've carried
the sweet sorrow with me, a heft I wish
I did not have to bear but one that I
will always cherish now. The burden
of my empty arms is the greatest weight.
Silas House. All These Ghosts. Durham: Blair, 2025, p. 59.
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