Grieving Barkeley
When you decide to love, you agree to grieve. It's a hard deal, but not too bad. Love renews and theoretically could go on forever. Grieving fades, in a ratio to the time spent in love, a ratio that has actually been measured by social scientists. One year of grieving for every 10 years of love, something like that.
For Barkeley, that means about a year and a half. I fell in love with Barkeley in 1993, when she was a fuzzy puppy. She puppy-trotted across her breeder's patio, over to where I sat on the ground, and she bit me on the toe, claiming me forever. Later that afternoon, she began her long tenure at Alta Mira.
She was named for love, for a place called Camp Barkeley, Texas, a World War II training base on the outskirts of my hometown. My father was a trainee there when he met my mother, who was an Abilene girl. Besides the toe, Barkeley was chosen because she was a Sheltie. They are good inside dogs, and they stay at home. Alta Mira is a curious hillside property impossible to fence, so stay-home puppies were essential.
Shelties look like miniature Collies. In fact strangers admiring Barkeley called her "Little Lassie." Shelties normally have floppy ears, but Barkeley's were pointed and furry. I called them mouton ears, after a type of winter coat beautiful high school girls wore in the 1950s. Barkeley was a color of tan called "sable" by Sheltie faithful, with black highlights. She had the signature white ruff, but only over her left shoulder and down across her throat. For that, I called her "Lefty" sometimes.
Barkeley was the second dog in my life who knew what I was thinking, and knew what I needed at any given moment. The first was Terry the Pup, a black cockapoo mutt I hung out with in the '80s. Terry would come alongside, where I sat on the stoop, and forced her nose between my arm and side, to let me know she was there, and ready. Barkeley approached from the front and sort of gently rested her muzzle on my leg, and bounced it a time or two.
Don't get me wrong. With Barkeley, it was food first, people second, and she was not inclined to patronize in exchange for an ear scratch. Still, she gained a reputation. She became distinguished by the regard her human friends had for her. She took you in through the eyes. She was small – 28 pounds – but with soft, huge, luminous brown eyes, set off by golden lashes and a touch of natural mascara. She had Bette Davis eyes.
She was fast, and a good chaser, and of course a natural herder. She would herd me out to get the paper, then wait at a ledge by the steps where, coming back, we could greet at the ledge and she would let me give her a full hug around the neck. That was our ritual for years. I noticed it starting to end three or four months ago. She lost her hearing and her eyes were turning cloudy. She was in her 90s, after all. Then she developed a tumor, maybe cancerous, maybe not, on the outside of her jaw. The vet said the normal procedure was to surgically remove the tumor, but, malignant or not, it would quickly grow back.
The treatment, in other words, would be worse than the condition. I thought maybe she could be with us through Christmas, but it didn't work out. This time she asked us to know what she was thinking. She was worn out, and she was disconnecting. Karen knew, and so did I, but it took me a few days to let go. Last week we took shovels out to the windy corner of the lot – she loved the wind in her face – finished our work there, carried her to the vet, she went to sleep, we carried her back home and laid her in her place on the corner, facing the wind. I hate it that she is gone. But I love it even more, that she was here.
For Barkeley, that means about a year and a half. I fell in love with Barkeley in 1993, when she was a fuzzy puppy. She puppy-trotted across her breeder's patio, over to where I sat on the ground, and she bit me on the toe, claiming me forever. Later that afternoon, she began her long tenure at Alta Mira.
She was named for love, for a place called Camp Barkeley, Texas, a World War II training base on the outskirts of my hometown. My father was a trainee there when he met my mother, who was an Abilene girl. Besides the toe, Barkeley was chosen because she was a Sheltie. They are good inside dogs, and they stay at home. Alta Mira is a curious hillside property impossible to fence, so stay-home puppies were essential.
Shelties look like miniature Collies. In fact strangers admiring Barkeley called her "Little Lassie." Shelties normally have floppy ears, but Barkeley's were pointed and furry. I called them mouton ears, after a type of winter coat beautiful high school girls wore in the 1950s. Barkeley was a color of tan called "sable" by Sheltie faithful, with black highlights. She had the signature white ruff, but only over her left shoulder and down across her throat. For that, I called her "Lefty" sometimes.
Barkeley was the second dog in my life who knew what I was thinking, and knew what I needed at any given moment. The first was Terry the Pup, a black cockapoo mutt I hung out with in the '80s. Terry would come alongside, where I sat on the stoop, and forced her nose between my arm and side, to let me know she was there, and ready. Barkeley approached from the front and sort of gently rested her muzzle on my leg, and bounced it a time or two.
Don't get me wrong. With Barkeley, it was food first, people second, and she was not inclined to patronize in exchange for an ear scratch. Still, she gained a reputation. She became distinguished by the regard her human friends had for her. She took you in through the eyes. She was small – 28 pounds – but with soft, huge, luminous brown eyes, set off by golden lashes and a touch of natural mascara. She had Bette Davis eyes.
She was fast, and a good chaser, and of course a natural herder. She would herd me out to get the paper, then wait at a ledge by the steps where, coming back, we could greet at the ledge and she would let me give her a full hug around the neck. That was our ritual for years. I noticed it starting to end three or four months ago. She lost her hearing and her eyes were turning cloudy. She was in her 90s, after all. Then she developed a tumor, maybe cancerous, maybe not, on the outside of her jaw. The vet said the normal procedure was to surgically remove the tumor, but, malignant or not, it would quickly grow back.
The treatment, in other words, would be worse than the condition. I thought maybe she could be with us through Christmas, but it didn't work out. This time she asked us to know what she was thinking. She was worn out, and she was disconnecting. Karen knew, and so did I, but it took me a few days to let go. Last week we took shovels out to the windy corner of the lot – she loved the wind in her face – finished our work there, carried her to the vet, she went to sleep, we carried her back home and laid her in her place on the corner, facing the wind. I hate it that she is gone. But I love it even more, that she was here.
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Beautiful.
Posted by
Anonymous |
12/18/07 6:39 PM
A wonderful tribute. You made me cry.
Posted by
Rae |
12/21/07 2:39 AM
Who knew an old armpit-head-rubbing fart like you had such a soft spot. Excellent writing. I got a tear myself.
Posted by
Ray |
12/23/07 6:53 AM