When I first met Peevey, she walked wide circles around me. She was like that with everyone except Sue. I pretended not to notice and tried not to let Peevey catch me looking at her. I’ve never seen a dog so attached to a person as Peevey was to Sue.
We used to walk Peevey up to the park and she didn’t even need a leash. She would listen and watch for Sue’s commands and she would obey. Sometimes she would run up ahead of us to the end of the block and then lay down and wait for Sue to tell her it was okay to cross the street.
Peevey would let me throw balls to her. That was acceptable to her, but nothing more. Peevey didn’t fully accept me until one day we drove up to the mountains with her. Sue stopped to go into a store and I stayed back by the car with Peevey. Peevey was in the back seat and she let me pet her. Then I told her in her ear that I thought she was a pretty nice dog. After that, she was okay with me.
Over the next couple of years, I grew to love Peevey, too. Peevey was part of Sue and Sue was part of Peevey. It was like a whole package. I loved playing ball with her. She was so good at it. She ignored the other dogs and cats. She didn’t have any use for them. When we went to bed, Peevey would jump up and plop down with us.
When Peevey left, she left a giant hole in Sue’s heart, I know. She left a big hole in mine, too. But I think if she were here and if she could talk, she would say that Sue gave her the best life a dog could ever want.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Don't Miss Anything - Sue
I just have to say this.
I was rooting around for my collection of toenail clippings when I came across an old daytimer. It's one of 793 that I've bought in my life and never used. I've had all the good intentions that pave the way to hell, but I misplace the daytimer and the next time I see it, a couple of years have passed. Like now.
I flipped through it anyway just in case I'd jotted anything down of note. All blank. Wait. Flipped again. Some scribbles here. Monday, September 15, 2008. "Bought this today. Walked to Daughter's new house. Son-in-Law tearing down walls. P and I bbsat Grandson. Played volleyball in living room.
Talked to Dr. Hillis about Peevey. She said remember when she was 2 yrs old what made her happy. Can she still do that?"
September 16, 2008: "Peevey is wobbly on her legs. I went to Alameda East and got the pain med after piano lesson. She got stuck under the bed. When I pulled her out she still didn't care to get up. She doesn't care about frisbee or ball.
Peevey died today."
September 17, 2008: "I put primer on Grandson's room on Birch St. First went to HD and got primer and wood. Have the night off work.
It's the first day without Peevey. I only fed two dogs. It felt like she was still hanging around. I told her it was okay to go, but I didn't really mean it. I want to go wherever she is and be with her. I can still feel how soft her fur is and smell her forehead. I kissed her just before she died."
September 20, 2008: "Took only two dogs for a walk. Practiced my song - Peevey's song. Hung up her collar on her painting. Got sympathy card from Laurie the mail lady."
That's what I just had to say, because that is what I came across yesterday. There is a big glass vase with a hole at the bottom where pieces of what are part of my life keep flowing out, sort of like sand, but more like a clear, liquid gel. As it flows out, it gets filled at the top with new pieces of what are part of my life. So the glass vase is always full.
There are parts that never leave though, that are locked away and I hope forever, as long as I don't lose my memory. I can always remember the soft fur like down and the smell of her forehead pressed against my face, feel her paw resting lightly on my knee. The trick to being okay with all of that seems to be recognizing when the glass vase is filling up with new stuff. It would be a shame to miss something. If I hadn't been watching when Peevey came along, I'd have missed her. And if I wasn't keeping a good eye out, I'd miss you, too.
I was rooting around for my collection of toenail clippings when I came across an old daytimer. It's one of 793 that I've bought in my life and never used. I've had all the good intentions that pave the way to hell, but I misplace the daytimer and the next time I see it, a couple of years have passed. Like now.
I flipped through it anyway just in case I'd jotted anything down of note. All blank. Wait. Flipped again. Some scribbles here. Monday, September 15, 2008. "Bought this today. Walked to Daughter's new house. Son-in-Law tearing down walls. P and I bbsat Grandson. Played volleyball in living room.
Talked to Dr. Hillis about Peevey. She said remember when she was 2 yrs old what made her happy. Can she still do that?"
September 16, 2008: "Peevey is wobbly on her legs. I went to Alameda East and got the pain med after piano lesson. She got stuck under the bed. When I pulled her out she still didn't care to get up. She doesn't care about frisbee or ball.
Peevey died today."
September 17, 2008: "I put primer on Grandson's room on Birch St. First went to HD and got primer and wood. Have the night off work.
It's the first day without Peevey. I only fed two dogs. It felt like she was still hanging around. I told her it was okay to go, but I didn't really mean it. I want to go wherever she is and be with her. I can still feel how soft her fur is and smell her forehead. I kissed her just before she died."
September 20, 2008: "Took only two dogs for a walk. Practiced my song - Peevey's song. Hung up her collar on her painting. Got sympathy card from Laurie the mail lady."
That's what I just had to say, because that is what I came across yesterday. There is a big glass vase with a hole at the bottom where pieces of what are part of my life keep flowing out, sort of like sand, but more like a clear, liquid gel. As it flows out, it gets filled at the top with new pieces of what are part of my life. So the glass vase is always full.
There are parts that never leave though, that are locked away and I hope forever, as long as I don't lose my memory. I can always remember the soft fur like down and the smell of her forehead pressed against my face, feel her paw resting lightly on my knee. The trick to being okay with all of that seems to be recognizing when the glass vase is filling up with new stuff. It would be a shame to miss something. If I hadn't been watching when Peevey came along, I'd have missed her. And if I wasn't keeping a good eye out, I'd miss you, too.
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