You're Here, I'm Here...

"I'm taking Tonzy for a walk," I tell Olive, who sits amidst her mess of a room we ordered her to clean, in case the new cat brings another live mouse inside and lets it go past midnight.

Olive looks up at me from one of her many piles, "You mean Lola."

"Right," I say, when I realize I just said the name of our newly deceased dog.

The sad shadow taps me on the shoulder-- I'm still here--he seems to say. 

"I meant I'm taking Lola for a walk to Tonsina."

Tonsina Point Trail: We live at the start of this popular wooded path that winds its way down to the beach with tidal flats and ghost trees. We named our first dog Tonsina back when we lived in the city of Anchorage and dreamed of someday moving here.

Tonsina, Tonz or Tonzy for short, who now lies six feet deep, with a new flower bed above his black and white coat. But he is not in the ground. No, Tonzy remains here amidst the Hemlock and Spruce.

Here in my view.

Always here.

Tonsina taught me to slow down, that sometimes its better to walk than to run. He reminded me to never stop loving, even when my shoulders sag. And that getting outside, even when the rain pours, can cure most crappy moods.

I see Tonz lying in the gravel in front of our house, rising slowly on stiff hips to greet us, to snick his snout in my crouch and whimper, "You're here, I'm here, you're here, I'm here..."

Since he died on our front porch three weeks ago, Lola, our five-year-old Border Collie, who has only known life with Tonsina, remains outside most of the time, grief heavy on her brows.

She watched him struggle inside by the door, saw Nick carry him to the porch, stood by as we held onto our beloved Tonz while he took his final breaths and let go.

Dogs know loss-- their wild hearts yearn for the company of the one who no longer runs, no longer steals the frisbee, no longer wrestles just for fun.

On the days after Tonsina's death, I poured myself into the work of building the new garden as Lola moped under the deck or nearby in the dirt.

Living up here, our dogs have enjoyed the freedom of a dog door and countless acres to roam so often I plan my own adventures without framing my choices around our pet's needs. Looking into Lola's sad eyes a few days out, I vowed to take time to walk or run with her every day. In can be a short stroll down the driveway and up the Big Tree trail. A rigorous hike up Mt. Marathon. A slow jog around Lowell Point. And of course, our favorite, a romp down Tonsina trail.

Our family spent Father's Day night camping on the beach at Tonsina Point. Nick and Elias kayaked out with most of the gear; Olive and I carried the rest on our backs and hiked with Lola from our house. To our surprise we found the beach empty when we arrived.

Lola ran along the shore and I could almost see Tonzy wading into his hips, the cold water relieving his arthritic joints, slowly walking out, shaking his shaggy coat and then rolling around in the black sand and dried seaweed.

The dirtiest dog at the park, we always called him.

I use to love calling for Tonsina when out on Tonsina Point, thinking that fellow travelers would think, "Wow, that lady's really happy to be here."

Tonsina!!!!

They wouldn't be wrong.

Thirteen years ago, when we rescued this tiny Border Collie/ Retriever/Lab mix the possibility of living out here felt like a mirage in the distance. Enticingly beautiful, but unreachable due to the complexity of Elias's medical and developmental challenges and the scarcity of year round positions that either Nick or I possessed the skills to occupy.

And yet here we are.

Here we live.

Tonsina spent his last four years retired up on this hill, getting daily treats from David, with less pain in his joints when we replaced asphalt for moss, dirt, and Spruce needles.

He may be gone but he always lives here.

His body will feed Hosta, Irises, Lillies, and more blooms to come-- and his soul will remind me not just to smell the flowers, but to relish in the beauty, the joy, the love of this wounded world.

You're here, I'm here, you're here, I'm here...

 

Comments

[Susan]

Oh, Christy, this is a beautiful tribute and remembrance of a dog who will live in your heart forever...to answer the question in your last post, does it get better? yes and no, has been my experience of saying goodbye to a very special cat. Although the sweetness of the memories, over time, becomes a stronger impulse than the raw pain of the loss. Tonsina brought so much love to all of you, and you showered her with affection too, and I hope those memories are a comfort.

[Sara]

This is very beautiful and made me cry.