Adam left on an April Sunday in ’66. Mom was at UH, Hal wasn’t home, and walking into an upstairs bedroom I’d found him motionless.
“Wrap your dog in a towel and take him to the hospital,” I was told, (when I’d called the vet’s house).
I did so dutifully. In white terrycloth I cloaked him, gingerly placing him in the green Chevy II before heading down Cedar.
To Dr. Elsner’s.
I was met at the side-door by Lefty. Bypassing the office, the aide guided me right to what appeared to be an operation room. And… and… even though I was 16 ½, even though my cherished sheltie felt heavier than ever, even though the “hoont” hadn’t moved in an hour…it hadn’t hit me he’d died. The dots didn’t connect.
He had, of course — and within moments, they did.
“Just leave him on the table. We’ll take care of it from here.”
“When’s Dr. Elsner going to be here?” I asked.
“He’s golfing.”
I drove home alone–in tears. The ride was short, but the day stayed long. Indeed. Adam had been my brother’s ninth birthday present and our mother’s “second set of ears”. But he had been my running buddy, and I cherished him.
There would be another Adam years later—a “rescue dog”, of sorts. It was early Y2K that I’d found posted a notice. One bichon…being given away… in Parma.
So I rescued him from the west side. (It could have been worse).
How I remember our drive back ‘cross town! There he sat, on the passenger’s seat, shaking. And there I sat: left hand on the wheel, right hand on the dog, comforting.
Bonding on 480, we two fell in love.
Adam left in due time… for a better world: Chicago. In the early days of Stace and Jace he’d run the hall at their condo— jubilantly barking. Happy was Adam, joyous and free.
Oh, I’d see him on visits. When I’d sleep on their couch my old friend would lay near me. He remembered, as did I.
Then more years passed and gently I morphed from middle-age to (shall we say?) more than middle age….
And I met Carrie—
And Leesa—
And Rusty.
Rusty Leimsieder wasn’t like any dog I’d friended before. A Shetland sheepdog he wasn’t. Not even a bichon. No, this thing was IMMENSE! On good days, standing, he’d tower over Aunt Helen. On bad days, growling, the two shared a smile. With it all though, I grew accustomed to his face.
By our sides he would sit, as we dined. (I would sneak him my mushrooms). By our sides he would bark, as we snuggled. (I would curse him). What I remember most, though, is that by MY side he did lay, the night of my surgery. Protective, caring, guarding….
Carrie texted me Tuesday. Rusty’d gone to a better place.
Saree was with her; Arthur’d been nice. The dog was at peace.
I was cuing up “Seinfeld” that night, readying for laughter.
“Leesa’s crying,” she said. (I didn’t have to ask why).
My thoughts turned to Adam, and to Lucy, and to Chicago—
And I hoped against hope that when the bichon’s number is called, my little two-year old will be away at college