Candy When
When my first dog, Candy, a Schnauzer, Grand Dame of three litters of pure-bred, silver pups, passed away after sixteen years, she was cremated and interned in a majestic bronze urn emblazoned with her full name and dates, Candy Girl, born September 1964 – died, November 1980.
She lived a long time. Candy was given to me as a present for my ninth birthday; I was thrilled. I named her after the Four Seasons’ hit song, after the same name. Candy Girl was a simple pop song, without harm, just about a love, charming just enough, my parents agreed to the name.
But Candy didn’t stay my dog; she became my mother’s dog instead. When my mother passed, she took Candy’s remains to the family plot.
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Like I do every weekend, I try to spend the most time with my dog. Because of my daily hours, where I’m out of the house 10 to 12 hours each day, it’s a long time for my dog, Gem, to go without company, so on weekends, I dedicate a few hours on Saturday and Sunday for special walks, long walks, hikes to state parks, and trails that I know she will like. It makes up for the time, I think, for when she endures the lost time from me during the week. And for myself, too, as I miss my friend, Gem, when I can’t see her. I would love to take her to work, but that’s another story for another day.
Yesterday, as I was walking Gem, I thought about Candy, and it only dawned on me at that precise moment, while stepping over a small stream of water in Point Mountain Park, as I watched my adventurous, happy dog, take laps from the cool and refreshing water, that when Gem dies, what will I do with her ashes?
I don’t think I want her boxed away, taken down into the earth; no. I don’t think I want that at all. She’s been too free, her makeup is that of courage, loyalty; she’s a good hunter, she’s strong and agile, and smart. She knows who likes her and who doesn’t like her, and so she’ll shy away, and go about her business. She doesn’t push, she knows better.
So what do I do, as I know my dog is exceptional in behavior, she must have an exceptional going out, how do I keep it in line?
In 2008, I lost two of my cats, 7 months apart. I had those cats for seventeen years. I trained my cats, as much as cats could be trained. They didn’t go on counters, and they didn’t stain anywhere except their litter box. I changed the litter often, as I knew the behavior of cats, and I knew my own cats well. They were friendly cats, outgoing, not shy, not spiteful, they enjoyed seeing others, and readily greeted new faces. And of all things not akin to the feline, they allowed me to take a brush to them.
One time, I brought Angelo out for a walk on a leash. He didn’t like it, and we didn’t do it again. But over the course of those 17 years, both Romeo and Angelo hung out with me, and came with me on many a move. Romeo didn’t do well in the car. He always threw up, but Angelo, was hardy. Both were brave, both good mousers. They didn’t cough the hairballs too much, thanks to the brushing.
So when they passed away, I cried for several days. And then one day I stopped crying. It just happened. It was like the flow of emotion just settled. Where all that emotion went, I don’t know. Two months had passed, and it was lonely without my cats, those chatty little bastards, how I missed them. But I found composure, accepting the Circle, as they say, The Circle of Life.
Coming out of a hot shower, I lay on my back naked in the hallway of my home, staring up at the ceiling, I thought about my cats. It was late winter, a quiet day, a Sunday in March. I sat up and stared at the bookcase that flanked both bedrooms, here were the boxes that held the remains of Angelo and Romeo. They were on the second shelf, next to their pictures. They was a stuffed play mouse between the two pictures. They liked being outdoors, lying in the hot sun. How long do I keep them on display on this bookcase?
My mind shifted to the day, and I dressed quickly. I gently brought down their remains from the shelf, placing them in a shoebox, and then taped the shoebox all around. I opened the car door, and placed the shoebox on the back seat floor. I drove to Durant Nature Park in Raleigh, North Carolina.
There’s a section to the nature park where a house once stood, but no one knows it. No one ever walks that trail because it’s closed off for what the park calls, ‘sensitive feeding area.’ So no one goes through the trail. But I do because I am horrible at obeying rules. So, I walked that part of the secluded trail, and when I reached the stone chimney (that’s all that remained), I opened up the shoebox, and then opened their boxes. I was staring at a palm-full of each cat’s remains, asking myself, How do I do this? Do I sprinkle here and there, under a tree over there, where? I decided just the way my cats had lived a frisky and eager life, to let their ashes spring to life, and then, without a thought, threw their ashes like a bouncing ball. Once, twice, three times, and then watched them settle. They were free.
***
It’s a Sunday, it’s bright summer, and I am headed for the Delaware Water Gap. I will hike again today with Gem. And I will remember each and every blessed day I have with my dog, while my dog is with me. But she isn’t coming with me to the family plot, no. Just as in life, she was raised and trained to be a fighter, a courageous dog, a smart dog, never beaten, never caged, she will always be free, never encased on a shelf or a bookstand.
Copyright Terry Rachel, August 2014
A Hardscrabble Daughter 