I know there are other, more baby-relevant things to record in
this space today, but I need to put something out there that’s been weighing on
my heart since last night. I feel guilty,
because it’s Ava Leigh’s thirtieth week of existence!
*release the balloons*
I would love to share
her ultrasound pictures from yesterday’s appointment with you, but I managed to
leave the guts of my ?@&*@#! camera at home. I think my brain cells are fizzling in a foam
of hormones.
Anywho, getting down to the point:
We lost Big Dolly yesterday.
She passed away at some point during the day while we were gone, and I
found her laying in her favorite spot in the brush early that evening, her
watery brown eyes fixed on the sunset. I
truly thought she was dozing and I’d managed to sneak up on her, so I leaned
over and stroked her fur. That’s when I
realized that she was most definitely gone.
She’d been having some health issues over the past month,
but during the past couple weeks she had seemed to rally and return to her old vigilant
self again after some doctoring and special feeding. The last couple of times that Jason and I had
seen her, she’d even been especially accepting of extra affection, which, given
her wild, instinctually-driven nature was unusual.
I really don’t know what to make of her death. There’s no reason for me not to accept it for
what it is and go on. I’m normally very
well adjusted when it comes to the necessity of death, even when people I love
pass on unexpectedly. I’m just having a
difficult time with the separation factor involved this time. After all, Dolly’s been part of my mornings
for the past few years and even when our encounters were brief, I had the
utmost respect for her and enjoyed even the most abbreviated opportunities during which she
allowed me to be an accepted part of her world.
Earning her trust was worth more to me than the high regard of many
human beings I’ve known.
She was noble and loyal and dedicated to her task as our
guardian at Sassafras Farms, and I will miss her every time I set foot on “her”
land.
She will be buried beneath a large oak
tree in a spot that overlooks the pasture she patrolled. Jason thought that would be the perfect spot
for her final repose, and I couldn’t agree more. She belongs there, basking in the sunset that
seals each day.
In her honor, I'd like to share a short story with you which she inspired. It was my intention to seek publication for it in some small country-themed magazine or journal, but I think that it's time to dust it off and share it as a gesture of thankfulness for her life.
"WHITE DOG"
by Heather Bennett Clenney
(copyright 2012)
It’s early morning, January,
just before the dawn. Twenty-four degrees, Fahrenheit. The neighbor’s
horses are in the field behind our property, patiently awaiting a familiar hand
to crack the ice crusting their watering trough. Their frosted breath
rises in a continuous stream from their noses.
I’m grateful for the stealth
that the lingering moonlight affords me; trudging across the frozen yard in my
woolen boots and purple bathrobe, I am slightly less dignified than I care to
appear in public. But the darkness accepts me for what I am — disoriented
and careless in my first few waking moments of the day.
Plodding over fresh molehills dug overnight by the scurrilous subterranean
creatures that inhabit our sandy lawn, I occasionally trip, and then right
myself, performing the daily dance of jerks and short steps it takes to reach
the goat pen at the far side of our property. After taking a few
shockingly hot missteps early in my farming career, I now refrain from
consuming freshly brewed coffee on my morning walks.
When I reach the shed that
serves as food storage and winter shelter for our flock, I flick open the
rolling door with a quick, familiar motion and duck inside, where four pairs of
curious eyes register my presence. In less than a second, my four pygmy
does are gone in a flash of waggling bellies and pert tails, running toward the
stack of cinder blocks which serves as both playground and feeding trough.
Their quickness in light of their clumsy-looking anatomy is baffling to me; the
breed’s natural athletic ability is astounding. As if to demonstrate, all
four does scale the cinder block mountain in one hilarious looking simultaneous
upward leap, where they half-patiently await a spread of sweet feed
pellets. I fake a quick movement to the left with a brimming scoop, and
as they tap-dance over in one direction, I quickly dump half the portion of
pellets on the opposite side of the blocks so I can manage a clear pour while
sparing my fingers from being stepped on. We perform this clever ritual
every day. They seem as comfortable in our routine as I do, even if they
are embarrassingly duped each morning.
The single variable during my sunrise chores is the presence of Big Dolly, our
Turkish Akbash. Until she came to live with us, I never knew that such a creature
existed. Possessing the wisdom of three thousand years of breeding and
instinct bordering on the wisdom of the wild, Akbashes are nature’s perfect
guardians, physically imposing in size and insulated from the elements by a
heavy coat of thick, winter-white fur. I often think of her as our
Ghost-In-Residence — her ways are so undetectably quiet, one never knows when
they are being watched, stalked, or approached within her territory. For
the uninitiated, the sudden realization you are being closely observed by a
well-concealed 135- pound dog can seem on the terrifying side of unnerving.
This morning, Dolly seems hesitant to approve of my presence. Instead of
finding her tucked in cozily with the does in the shed, she paces like an
expectant father-to-be. Wearing my most convincingly harmless expression,
I crouch to appear as diminutive as possible and offer her a graham
cracker. During our time together, I’ve come to realize that she only
feels safe when she is in control — feeling like the bigger “animal” seems to
encourage friendliness on her part.
It is at this precise moment that my booted foot comes in contact with
something squishy. I look down without the slightest expectation of what
might have lodged beneath my sole and, to my revulsion, I extract a disembodied
baby bunny head from my tread. I stoop to examine the poor shredded
creature — perform an impromptu port-mortem of sorts.
Ah, farm life.
As I roll the little wad of furry carnage around with a stick, I glimpse the
reflection of movement in the bunny’s death-glazed eye — something looms
behind me. Something gigantic and white.
I hear the huff of breath issued from a wet muzzle.
The softness of a large pink tongue clearing carnivorous teeth.
I thoughtlessly look over my
right shoulder, and right into a pair of wide brown eyes.
"BLAAAAAARGH!!!!!"
Big Dolly bounds away. She stops long enough to throw a hurt glance over
her shoulder as if to say, Why did you bellow at me? With
shame in my heart, I hastily fish through my robe pocket and retrieve a cracker
and reassume a squatting position as I hold it out to her.
My olive branch. Here.
Hesitantly, she inches toward me. Her enormous head hangs low, and she
studies my intention with a wise, beseeching gaze.
Slowly. Slowly.
In a bewildering act of tameness, she opens her great maw and allows me, ever
so gently, to place the cracker all the way inside.
MINE.
With a snap and a leap, she flees with her prize into a thicket of privet.
And with that, the pen is peaceful. The goats intently gobble their food
on the cinder block mountain. I retrieve a shovel from the shelter and
use it to create a more dignified final resting place for poor Mr.
Cottontail. I assume he found himself to be an unwelcome guest in Big
Dolly's territory during the previous evening. She doesn't care for
sudden movement in the dark.
As I leave the fenced area and begin to fiddle with the gate, my eye wanders up
to the bramble where Big Dolly has taken cover for the day. Through the
overgrowth, I can make out the shape of her commanding form. Her body is
stone-still, her gaze steady. I nervously direct my attention back to the
lock.
I turn and begin my lope back to the house through the breaking light of a
foggy sunrise. I feel her dark eyes on my back the whole way.
