Where You Go

I wrote this shortly after coming home from work. The quiet in the house inspired me, in some small way.

Devoted to Carey Sue

~~~

"Where You Go"

Tread the roads that lead you on,
Ever forward, ever yon.
Where you go I cannot go,
But here I’ll stay whilst you roam.
Once in times forgot but sweet
We took these paths beneath our feet,
And laughing gay and merry much
We danced on petals of flowers such
As men of mortal ‘%%brance know
Must cease to bloom when winter shows.

Now that winter falls at last,
Taking spring’s grand green repast.
I linger in this cold decay,
Beneath the trudge of seasons’ play.
And thoughtful of the times bygone
When you and I would often fawn
In love and sweetness infinite
Before our roads divided split.
And now alone I wander on
Beneath this chilly winter’s sun

But you my darling Carey Sue,
You know this truth is not so true:
Where green is now ‘twill always be
In lands unknown to my misery.
I pray forgiveness you now can show
For where you go I cannot go.

~~~

A Candle For My Froo

Carey Sue (affectionately dubbed "Sue-Sue Froo-Froo", or simply "the Froo" or "Frooty") lived to the ripe old age of nearly eighteen years. For a purebred Australian Shepherd - or any larger breed of dog, as I understand it - this is extremely rare, and nothing short of a gift from God Himself. She was so very important to us, a cherished icon of unrelenting affection in an otherwise small and hateful world. I call her my unconditional lover.

For many years this amazing creature (for I hesitate to call her simply a dog) was nothing short of my own shadow, always at my heels. Since we put her to sleep on April 27th, I've laid in sleepless remembrance of our many and varied "special times". Here I will write of them - for my own need if nothing else.

One of my earliest memories of this divine creature are of her in lazy repose in our expansive front yard, basking in a summer sun. It's somehow weird that I can recall the image with such clarity now that she's dead, though before that I hadn't reminisced of it in years. At the time, we also had a one-eyed duck named Lucy. Now this Lucy, she loved to preen Carey when she wasn't looking. All the time we would see her, waddling up behind our Froo and pecking lightly at her fur to dislodge some tasty little morsel. So strange and wonderful, their tiny animal kingdom. I thought that even then, when I couldn't have been more than five or so. I still do.

Fondly I remember other things, like when dinner would be served at our table - and there Carey would be, a silent and lusty-eyed attendant. (Sometimes I wondered if she wasn't using us the whole time just for our leftovers.) Often times I would pick a little piece of whatever I was eating - meat, vegetable, fruit, whatever - and let her snarf it down. I got such joy from that. The dog really had a stomach of steel - she could eat *anything*, and usually would.

She had bad habits, though, especially when she was younger. For instance, Carey simply *adored* hopping the gate fence and frollicking with the neighborhood pooches. She did it often, despite strong efforts on our part to prevent it. All anyone ever had to do, though, was stand in the front yard and scream, "Ca-are-ey!" and there she'd be, a black blur darting for our voice. One time, though, she didn't respond. Over and over we called, but to no avail. So we hiked on our shoes and went searching for the little miscreant; as things turned out, she had been dealt a glancing blow on one paw by a moving car (car-chasing was a favorite past-time of hers) and was limping badly. To my five- or six-year-old mind, it was sheer fright. I was going to lose my sister, my playmate. As things turned out, though, she quickly recovered and was back to escaping the house and hopping fences in no time.

Luckily, as time went on and our little Froo-Froo aged, fence-hopping gave way to excessive sniffage and heavy breathing. We welcomed it as an even trade. Until just a couple short years ago, people were astonished to find that this dog, this sprite little girly-girl, was as old as she was. Always so brimming with life, love, and affection. Always.

But she got older, and as things tend to go, she stopped running and playing in lieu of sleeping and eating and licking. She began to have problems with fleas, for fleas in Florida are *always* a problem. We invested in monthly flea treatment, and it worked great - our darling girl was free of the gnawing menace of fleas. That is, until one treatment led to an accidental overdose and nearly poisoned our baby to death. After that, we were told her brain could no longer tolerate specific chemicals in the treatment, and we'd have to halt them altogether. We began to bathe her excessively. She loved the attention, though. The water, the rubbing and massaging - oh, I've no doubt it was sheer heaven to our little Sue-Sue.

Well, the distant past turned into the recent past, and we moved to a new location, a humid, heavily wooded location that, as bad luck would have it, also throve with fleas. The little beasts became a renewed threat to our little girl, who was now greatly afflicted with arthritis and couldn't even scratch her hind or mid quarters for some temporary relief. From there, you really know the logical timeline from my other post.

But even then, there were good times to be had. My favorite thing to do was to clip her brown leather leash on her puffy purple collar and walk her out into a nearby meadow. I'd light up a cigarette and just watch the old girl as she went about her routine sniffage of her "domain".

During this time, I myself was going through a rather long and dark bout of emotional anguish. A stressful white-collar job and a recent crippling in the family only served to heighten my sense of turmoil, along with the deaths of several of my closest relatives. One of the few consolations that really offered any true solace was my Froo. Late at night, when tears found me and I couldn't sleep, it was such a relief to know that all I had to do was lay down beside my girl and cry into the white patch of fur on her chest and pour out my problems. Such a good listener. Carey would lay there, paw on my shoulder and just... watch me. And it when it was done, she would lick the salt from my face and nudge me with her snout, as if to say, "You done? You need more?"

One of the last memories I have of my honey girl, and one of the most poignant, is when I came home sick from work one day (the day before she died) and she just seemed to instinctively... know that something was wrong. Even through the levels of mounting pain I am now certain she must have already been feeling, she was there to love and console and comfort me. An infinite reservoir of love, that creature. I regret now not spending much time with her in those last days. Emotional strain and a general physical state of sleeplessness and weariness made me very distant to the plight of my baby.

How I could fall on her with my tears and not realize the pain she herself must have felt... it astounds me I could have been so selfish. I regret so much about those last days, so much. Waking up the night before we had to put her to sleep to find her sprawled and unable to get up, whining pitifully, all I did was move her and stroke her until she settled down and then went back to bed myself. I could have - and very well should have - done more. She needed me then, moreso than I had ever needed her, and so tired and unable to just... sustain, I paid some small pittance to her pain and went back to bed. It feels awful, simply awful.

I will not center on such feelings, though. I just needed to get this out, a truncated version of the long tapestry of my baby's life. How I will miss her.

This is my candle for you, Frooty Froo. I love you.

Gone With The Wind

Seventeen years old, Carey Sue has been with me since I was literally a babe in swaddling. Ever ready with an endless supply of love and affection, she has been my companion over many tumultuous years, bearing many of my own heart aches and trials with her beautiful hazel eyes. She was an Australian Shepherd, the kindest creature I've yet to see under heaven. Yesterday we had to put her down due to severe neurological distress and anemia brought on by old age and the feasting of countless fleas. I cannot deny that I feel more than partially responsible for the pure torment that was her last few hours on this earth, but I know it was simply her time. Guilt serves nothing but to further my own anguish. I am lost, though, and desperate. Every time I blink, I can't help but see that familiar black-and-gray shadow in the corner of my eye - even though it's no longer there. Every time I sigh, I can't help but hear the prancing of her paws on our hardwood floors - even though it's no longer there. It seems the world has lost all color, all hope... and I just don't know what to do now, how to carry on. Such a big piece of my life, and she's gone.

The last few months have been very hectic, and really the only two things that have kept me going have been the love of this amazing animal, and the love of my mother. Now that love is halved, and I feel confused and helpless. What should I do? Should I simply clutch impotently at her brown leash and ponder all the walks she and I will never go on again? Should I get a new pet to ease the loss of my unconditional lover? The idea seems strange, and I feel guilty for even considering it, but there is a huge void in my life now, and it needs to be filled if I am to meet the day and continue moving forward. Please help me.