Dear Sam,
It's been two months since our last trip together. In the
wee hours before dawn, I settled you into the car's front seat, my faithful
wingman, Captain Sammydawg. You, usually butt and tail wagging, always loved
running to the car after you saw suitcases by the back door. You would jump
into the seat, let me buckle you in, and then look around as if to say, "Where
to now?!" This time you were fading.
We started life together on my 50th birthday. I had wanted a
beagle for a long time, and the local Humane Society had two. A little girl
wanted the other, so by default, you became mine. By default, but not by
chance. We came home, and boy, were you excited about being home. You raced
around the house and then let me know you considered yourself a lap dog and
that I should too. Whenever and wherever I sat, you came slowly creeping onto
my lap, first one paw, then another, then your whole self, looking into my eyes
with that adoring gaze. I didn't deserve that gaze, but you thought I did.
We had a few of the everyday challenges, but we settled
quickly. You were my pet, I was your owner, and life was tied up neatly. I gave
you the usual pet care, and you would do cute or not-so-cute dog things.
Then my life caught up with me, beat me, and left me sobbing
on the floor. And there you found me, curled yourself around me, sighed deeply,
and didn't leave. I realized then, at least to you, we were never pet and
owner. I simply belong to you. I was yours to care for. The adoring gaze tried
to tell me, but I had been too blind to see.
In the following years, I watched you and saw how mealtimes
were always a reason for a party. Warm spring days were meant for surveying
your kingdom from the open patio door and then a long nap in the sun. Snow was
to be snuffled and tossed. You considered every stranger a friend you hadn't
met yet and who desperately needed your affection. Mornings were for snuggling
and wrestling, evenings for cuddling on the sofa and snoring softly. Popcorn
was for sharing, and you made sure you were never more than a few feet from me
for no reason other than wanting to be there.
And no one greeted me home like you. I was told you would
stand by the door and whine when I left. And I know that when I came home, you
did the same. It always sounded like, "Hurry up and open the door! I've
missed you!"
My days now are spent recognizing how you wove our lives together with each moment of every day. In all of this, Samwise, you knew, as your namesake did, that presence is enough, there are joys amid sorrows, and being faithful to the task at hand is one of the greatest gifts we can give one another. And you gave them abundantly. This is how life is well lived.
So as that last trip ended, I laid you in a small grave that
holds you. Holds a gentle, kind heart with strength so immense it wrapped all
who met you in delight that lifted anyone vulnerable enough to allow it. I am
not a theologian, but I am told that God will restore and renew all creation. I'm
not ashamed to admit that I hope that includes you, my friend I named Samwise.
Until then, rest.
