Intermission: A Postcard Back

5:35 PM, Saturday

December 31, 2016

Dear Mom:

Somewhere in this house, in one of the boxes of treasures I saved from your house, is a picture you took of me with Bob just before we left Waverly for Dearborn. It was 2001, I think. Maybe 2002. I'm at that age now where the years get blurred. 

We were leaving Tennessee after spending Easter Vacation with you. The week had gone well, surprisingly. It hadn't had a promising start. I had called you from Michigan on March 31, Dad's birthday, and told you that I had adopted a Shih Tzu puppy. Your reply lacked enthusiasm; you weren't much for household pets, but then again, Dad's birthday was a tough day for you. 

"Where are you going to keep him when you come down here for Easter?" you asked. I should have anticipated that, but I hadn't. Your question surprised me.

"He's coming with me!" I blurted.

"Well... I suppose he can sleep in the gazebo." 

"He's not sleeping in the gazebo! If you don't want Bob to come, I can't come. I just got him. It wouldn't be fair to leave him with someone."

"Fine," you groused. "But if he has an accident in the house, you'll both be sleeping in the gazebo." 

You meant it.

During the week we stayed with you, Bob peed in the kitchen, he peed in the dining room, he pooped in the guest bedroom, the family room, the living room, and dad's office. To your horror, and mine, you shrieked as you came upon Bob lifting his leg one afternoon, ready to strike the vaguely grinning Beany Baby on your bed that was wearing a navy uniform like dad's. Puzzled, Bob paused long enough for me to race into the bedroom and swoop him out the back door. 

"You're going to put us both in the gazebo. And the dog house." Bob wagged his tail as he sniffed out new territory beneath a magnola tree.

Oddly, you said nothing after Bob and I returned to the house. I had noticed a softening on your part in the few days since Bob and I arrived. When we watched television, you sat on the couch with Bob at your side, legs up, as you lazily scratched his belly. Your nails were so much better than mine, he never let me scratch his belly the way he begged you to do. When you ate your morning bowl of cereal, you casually tossed a few Honey Nut Cheerios across the family room and giggled as Bob streaked across the carpet to gobble up his find. 

On the morning we were scheduled to leave, I noticed Bob growing anxious as I carried items out to the car. I strapped him into his doggie seat, patted his head and told him we were just going home. I dragged my suitcase from the house to the trunk of my car and rearranged the items already packed. 

"Oh! I just need one more hug!" came your voice from driveway. I turned, arms outstretched, ready for another mother hug. Instead, I found you half inside the front seat, arms craddling a very contented puppy. "I am going to miss you!"  you enthused to Bob. Not to me. Bob.

"I need a picture of the two of you, too!" 

Connie and Bob

I settled into the driver's seat next to Bob and we beamed into the camera. We never did put that dog's bed in the gazebo.

The other day Leah asked me whether I believed there were pets in heaven because, she reasoned, if all animals went to heaven, it could get pretty crowded. I said I don't know, but I sure hope so. 

From my perspective the worst part of religion is that it can seem less a belief than a wish, a hope for what we want to be true instead of an act of faith that springs from a connection with the divine. I have had devine connections, I don't doubt them. But this question, do pets go to heaven? It's too close to my heart. I can't find a path for an answer.

What I hope... My deepest wish is that you are waiting. That you know Bob is growing feeble, that his little legs are growing weaker, and his breathing is more labored. I pray you know this and you are waiting to scratch his belly again after you walk him Home.

I will love you always, too, 

Connie