Dear Tasha,

It is August 12 again. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since I had to send you on ahead. It’s 5:30pm, and I remember it was just a few minutes before six when I laid down on the floor next to you and took off your collar with its jingly tags for the last time, and watched the veterinarian put you to sleep. I’ve kept your collar on my bedpost ever since.

I remember the blankie they brought for you, and wrapped around your body, was light blue with little ducks.

You loved your cookie jar shaped like a beagle, that barked when we tilted back his head. And how you’d run to it for cookies when I said “big mean barkin’ dog.”

You loved to share popcorn and the crusts of my sandwiches.

I think about you every day, and try to picture where you are. It’s hard. Sometimes I see a brilliant bridge and trees, grass, a pond and a stream to feed it, and angels feeding you. But I think that you are consciousness, relieved of everything that was not Tash. I guess I’ll find out soon enough, so let’s just accept the mystery.

You loved riding in the pickup truck, anywhere, anytime, but you hated it when I opened the door of the garage. Big old noisy, stupid door.

It’s 5:40pm. I knew they were coming any minute now. I prayed they wouldn’t forget to come. They promised. I couldn’t let you face another long dark night of being old and sick. You were slipping away from me, already half way to heaven, and in sight of the Rainbow Bridge.

It wasn’t a bad day. It was long and hard, but we didn’t want it shorter, right? We had a cookie on the grass, and we visited Stella in her special place. Are you together with her now? Is Pepper there, and Betty June and Lady, Winnie, Rock, and Jack? Ralph and Tinker? Little Boots? Is maybe Squeaky squeaking in a tree?

You loved it when I scratched your back or rubbed your tummy. And I remember those times when I got home from work and you had dragged my sweats and running shoes from the bedroom, and left them by the front door so we could go out and play.

It’s 5:45, and I was with you in the living room by the windows. But I don’t remember if I saw the vet’s car come up the drive. Did you know they were coming? I told you, remember? I said it was alright to go, that you’d accomplished your life and been a perfect friend and spent five thousand nights with me, so I was not alone. I told you not to worry about me. It’s alright, find peace, be free.

It’s 5:50pm, and this is when they came. I heard Mom talking to them in the hall, and they came through fast. And they were there, explaining. And you and I were ready, girl. We had fourteen years to be ready for goodbye, and you were brave. I melted, like ice in a high-banked fire. As brave as I could be, I guess.

You loved the wind in your face, out on the bluffs where the wind comes off the ocean fresh and bringing salt and bearing time; time to cross a million waves and tip them white, then make a small dog turn and smile.

I loved those small moments of peace with you, Tasha. Reaching down beside the bed to find you there. Playing tugger with a knotted sock. Coming out from a store and whistling – still far from the truck – to watch your little years pop up behind the window. I always worried, made my shopping quick. Who wouldn’t want to steal a dog like you? But I know that you were a man’s dog, no nonsense, take no guff. You would guard that truck. And if I got out, and someone was walking behind me, you’d bark like a Doberman. “Look out!” I remember the time you chased the neighbor’s German Shepard off. “My yard!” You had a sense of place.

It’s 6:00pm, and you were gone.

Papa’s clock is striking in the other room, and the nights are getting longer now, again.

Love,

your Kyle