A Sentimental Journey Somewhere in Time
Posted by Anne Corke on 2009-06-29. Filed under Monthly Feature
It's hard to believe that all those items could fit in a decorative cardboard box. Her leash and collar. Snippets of her black and silver fur. A plaster cast of her big paw print. Treasured cards and letters of condolence. A therapy dog scarf and certificate. Her favorite toy duck with fur chewed to perfection. And list upon list of the places where she visited as a therapy dog in the past 10 years.
I didn't want Hannah to get official credit for the visits to the nursing homes and preschools, hospitals and bite preventions. I knew there was "Someone Else" keeping tabs. But I kept a personal record nonetheless. Even I was stunned when I un-crumpled those lists and saw the number of visitations. I put them in the box, too, as precious keepsakes.
When I went to pick up Hannah's cremains last week, I was a bit surprised by how heavy that tin box was. Of course, I didn't have the heart to look within. Although her big black nose still fills my computer screen, I still asked Dr. Judy for a copy of her medical records, so I could see that she really did exist. That Dr. Judy and I really did try to keep her alive as long as possible. I put those records in the butterfly box as well as the cremains, along with a baggie containing all her prescriptions.
One of the hardest parts of losing someone, be it canine or human, is that unbelievable moment each day when the realization strikes. I had that odd sensation when my father died four years ago this July, and again when my father-in-law left us nearly two years ago. As Joan Didion described in her heartbreaking memoir, "The Year of Magical Thinking," I kept expecting the two Richards to once again walk into the room, their laughter booming, their gestures large for the world to see. At times, I still await those faces.
In a sense, losing a shadow like my Hannah dog is just as hard. Because Hannah was always with me. She was my constant passenger in the car and on lengthy walks, even beside me as I wrote or did chores.
Remarkably, Baby Hazel caused that magical thinking to occur more often than not, as I saw her large black head emerge from below the table, or as she surfed from couch to couch in the semi-darkness. After 12 long years, I was sure that she was Hannah.
Tuesday nights are the hardest. Hannah spent her last Tuesday suspended between here and there, in pain, standing on the grass beside the bush that flowers in profusion. Now Hazel loves to languish there in the late springtime lushness. At 35 pounds, her ebony fur, soon destined to be silver, glimmers in the moonlight on our late night potty breaks. Her tall form resembles another dog I loved so well. With long black legs and deep brown eyes. With silky ears and a gumdrop nose. A dog who was forever searching my hands for pats and treats. Who lay beside my children's beds when lightning struck. A magical dog. One I still see walking beside me on occasion.
I hope there is not an entire year of magical thinking this time around. I couldn't bear it. That's what I say to myself as Hazel jumps wildly for the bubbles my daughter blows in the almost-summer breeze. As she smiles her standard poodle smile and slumps happily before her bowl, the same red one Hannah drank from just weeks ago. Yes, Pure Magic.
Wooster Daily Record
June 3, 2009