It happened quite quickly on Friday evening. She had been looking a little bit glazed and uncertain for the last few days, although she was in reasonable shape walking in Centennial Park on Thursday morning, trotting along at her own speed, tail wagging slowly, and endlessly, as it always did. Her last years were nothing if not a manifestation of strength and beauty of personality.
Spot was 16. The oldest dog I've ever had, and I've always had dogs. Always will I hope. Strangely, I'd been lent Dog Walks Man the week before, half finished now on the bedside table. Spot walked us through a life certainly better for her being. Our good fortune.
The little city house felt suddenly empty. I didn't get down to the country, by now surrounded in mist and low cloud with a light steady rain, till Sunday evening. With two candles and an incense stick burning, I sat on the couch with Millie. She's the big dog now, the keeper of the spirit. In a half awake half asleep fading meditative state, my bare feet under the old wooden table where Spot spent most of her last years, in the stillness, I swear I felt her hairs gently brush past my toes, soft and fleeting, then gone.
We had stayed in town for a fund raising party on Saturday. Under a marquee on the lawns of an old sandstone house, Sydney twinkling beyond the harbour, Diana Doherty, with Pen on piano, had played Robert Schumann's Evening Serenade, and only as she could - heartfelt and beautiful, time slipping away, a hushed audience, and us, a wee bit teary.
Here you go Spot ... and thanks
1 comment:
So sad... Lovely tribute.
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