The
story below is a special story written by K.A. Peterson
Aunatee lies on the table. I hold his head with one hand and
pet him with the other. He holds his head rigidly, resistively;
he doesn't want to be here. Neither do I. As the last of the
hypodermic enters his body, it is over. All fight is gone. His
head falls to the side. I lean in and whisper "free"
into his ear. I hope he hears it. It is a command I used when
I released him from the leash, or after he had been on "heel",
or after a long trip confined to the floor of the van. It meant
that he was off of restraint and could be his own dog. Now it
means that he is finally free of his awkward dog/human existence.
I want him to know the next choice he makes will be exclusively
his.
"And
that is it," I say for me. It is a question/statement
said in shock and astonishment, the last word becomes lost
in grief. I can't believe how swiftly death has come. The
doctor gives me an answer I don't need to hear then he
and his assistant give me a moment alone.
I
look at Aunatee's chest, something I have been doing a lot
of recently. It is still. He is no longer pulling in those
deep labored breaths he started two days ago. I run my hand
over the ripples of his ribs. His fur is still soft and he
is still warm. I look into his good eye, it now looks as
empty as the one dilated and blinded by his stroke. He is
gone.
I
unbuckle the collar and slide it out from beneath Aunatee's
neck. I don't resist the temptation to run my fingers through
the thick fur one last time. I pull the bandana over his
ears, for the first time he doesn't help me by withdrawing
his head. The collar and bandana were the uniform he wore
whenever we started an adventure. I put them on today so
Aunatee would know he was beginning a journey; I take them
off so I know this journey is over. For the first time in
over eleven years, Aunatee has lead me to a place I cannot
follow.
I
come back into the front office and am suddenly embarrassed
by the tears in my eyes. I always thought there was something
not quite right with people who became so emotional about
there pets. I had told myself for years that Aunatee was
"just a dog." I guess that after 11 and a half years
of constant companionship I wasn't prepared for the fact that
this dog had become my best friend.
I
quickly pay the bill and step outside. The sun rests on the
mountains. Heavy sobs rip the breath from my empty chest.
The sun slips from the sky. My dog is gone.
I
remember the young dog, all legs, ears, and attention sitting
in the Humane Society kennel: 3 months old, Male, Malmute-X.
He wasn't whimpering or barking or cowering. He waited until
I walked up to the fence and started talking to him before
he revealed his passion for leaving that place. I was sold
and Doreen and Ryan deferred to my decision.
Doreen
and I racked our brains and imaginations to find a proper
name for our new dog. Finally "Aunatee" came to
the forefront. Aunatee is a word form an extinct Native American
language. In Yahi dialect it means "fire", Aunatee's
color. Over the year Doreen and I learned to watch for Aunatee
Weather. It occurred in the evening when the sun, already
below the horizon, still shone on the towering remnants of
dissipating thunderheads and washed the world in golden,
salmon-colored light. And there would be Aunatee, sitting
in the dark grass, glowing. Doreen said he was recharging
his fire.
I
remember summer afternoons, many of them, when the sky would
darken and begin to rumble. Aunatee and I would meet in the
backyard, lie in the grass and watch the storm grow. Then,
when the sky was about to tear itself asunder, we would race
to the porch and cower by the backdoor while cascades of
rain and hail fell.
For
more than a decade Aunatee and I traveled from New Mexico
to Canada together. We climbed mountains, crossed deserts,
explored canyons, forded rivers, ran along beaches, and watched
sunsets. We slept under the stars, spent a night in a snow
cave, and fought over space in a one-man tent. I can see
him still: False dawn, the sky painted pale pink. Aunatee
is up and walks out onto the ridge. At 11,000 feet, the crystalline
air seems to jingle with cold. As Aunatee walks he stretches
each back leg in turn straight out behind him and arcs his
nose to the fading stars. Aunatee has decided the night is
finished. He sits with his fore feet as close as possible
to his rear and wraps his tail over them to keep them warm.
He faces east, awaiting the sun. It will be a long wait.
I fall asleep again.
I
awake. The sun has already cleared the eastern mountains.
Aunatee, ablaze, watches the rising sun and listens to the
morning. Recharging his fire. Aunatee and I shared each others
worlds. I taught him about political boundaries like property
lines and curbs, when it was acceptable to bark, and the
continuous lesson of "heel".
Aunatee
taught me how to watch the world with my ears: the special
sound of the neighborhood when the meter-reader was running
his rounds; how to listen with excitement for the U.P.S.
truck when it yet two blocks away; and to always look skyward
when I heard the funny creaking sound of geese on the wing.
But
most of all I learned to depend on Aunatee. No matter how
crazy the world became, or how difficult my life, Aunatee
was always there. He seemed to find joy in just being with
me, an infectious, freely given joy. Half-an-hour lying in
the sun with my dog worked miracles. I would always be rejuvenated
and ready to re-tackle the problem that sent me looking for
him in the first place.
Aunatee
and I knew each other too well. We could communicate with
a look, a gesture, a posture, or a simple sound. Not many
days would pass without me burying my face in the luxurious
fur of his neck and giving a small growl and a mock bite.
Aunatee would always respond by lowing his head and wagging
his tail, the proper behavior when the alpha dog shows his
affection.
When
Aunatee and I took to the streets for a walk or run people
always stopped us. They wanted to know what breed of dog
Aunatee was and were never satisfied with the Humane Society
summary. Soon we would be speculating as to whether or not
he had wolf in him. Aunatee had wolf eyes, soft-brown, intent,
alert. I would always end by agreeing that there was indeed
something wild in my dog. But it was more than that. Perhaps
Aunatee's uniqueness lay in the fact that he was a mutt.
The idea that genetic chance had created his lean body, lush
fur, and symmetrical coloration. But even more unique was
the random combining of genetics with the inspired spirit
that gave Aunatee an almost regal presence. When I think
of Aunatee, I see him lying sphinx-like with fore paws crossed
and watching, watching, always watching everything.
It's
10 PM, the end of a very long day. Somewhere in the deepest
part of me this day is being filed with the worst days of
my life. For Aunatee it was a pretty good day. It started
with a leisurely exploration of the river, included a nap
in the sun and more dog biscuits than he had ever eaten in
one day. He finished the day supervising another of my endless
projects. For Aunatee, the day didn't carry the burden of
the dreadful fore-knowledge of how the day would end.
I
turn off the porch light and lock the front door. Only last
night the routine included letting Aunatee out for a quick
patrol around the icy perimeter of the front yard.
I
turn down the furnace and wander through the empty house.
I have a nagging feeling that I have forgotten something.
But I haven't. I did all I could do; I did what I had to
do- I fulfilled the promise I made to Aunatee when I first
brought him home. I stand at the backdoor and stare out into
the blackness. Life is diminished. Something magical and
mysterious has vanished at a time when magic and mystery
are a scarcity.
For
the first time, in eleven and a half years, I lock the backdoor
before going to bed. |
