Saturday, September 15, 2007

one thousand stories later and he is still here. The sweet Prince. the little heart within my heart who beats and wags to my life and I love him for it. The devoted follower of mine. just letting go of one part of him feels like a little death. one story. If ever my soul appeared in this life it was unleashed in a flat run on the beach. trusted and just beyond arms reach. Sandy, lean, sprayed by the ocean and panting. we stopped, for it was only possible to keep up on horseback and this soul glanced at me, right through me. canine smile, wet fur and a heart bursting with love for me and of my youth as I was living it. That's what I saw. the salt air and constant off shore wind was there too. Story two. (and this before the first) Chicago Summer 1999.
We called the best trainer in town.
"I'll be damned if this dog doesn't come when he's called."
That was not necessary. The trainer arrived unaware of my strict expectation and took his leash. It’s the same flimsy leather braided lead he still uses. He walked our dog half way down the block. We held our breath watching the flop-flop ears and curled tail leave us, how our hearts melted already at the sight of him. The man, in his late twenties, and according to the florist on Hollywood Boulevard trainer of the likes of Rin-tin-tin, Benji AND the White House Dog, as far as we knew, asked Simon to sit. I know he did this because even at that time in our short relationship Simon needed only conversation to really grasp what I desired and he was looking at this man as he did me often times and the man may have said something like this. "Simon are you a good dog? You seem like a fine gentleman to me. Have you asked the ladies nicely to take care of you in exchange for your unfettered Saint Christopher-like devotion? I thought you had. Gooood boy" Simon, from half a block away sat in his best Greyhound labish posture, which is more cat than Lab. He cocked his head as the trainer gently swung the end of the loose leash and, to our surprise, walked back to us. He'd mentioned walking around the block, so suddenly we questioned if we'd have to pay for this brief encounter. Then he said, "You don't need me" "What?" "You don't need me. Simon is a sensitive guy. I've seen this before, you just need to speak quietly to him and he'll listen." He gave me the leash and said good-bye and our yearling pup lead us up the stairs back into the house. It was as if he'd known all along. That summer after work I walked him every evening down the alley to our gate. We'd play a mini game of fetch in the miniscule backyard. He learned quickly what we wanted and within a month or two we both decided it was time to take Simon to the school yard. We passed it many times over the year before we had Simon, just down the street from our Edgewater flat. During the day it was a regular school but after dark the neighbors, mostly without children, brought their dogs to play on the lawn. There was no fence, so it was a big deal for us on our first night there. Simon bowed and submitted to the other dogs as we nervously looked on. We had to try it, it was just a moment to let go and then. un-leashed. He bound away from us in play for I don’t know how long. I don't remember if it was that night or another inescapably hot evening shortly there after when he bolted across the street away from us. There was something that scared him, but our commands and voices did not comfort or stop him. He ran for the street and my throat went straight to my gut. We ran in his direction, across the dark busy street. I remember there was a giant refuse container, the kind used for building renovation across that street and no sign of Simon, my heart sank. We turned the corner of that bin and saw him. He was there sitting, panting on the lawn, looking away from us, as if in shame but not moving as we ran towards him. At that moment I knew he understood our concern. That his own fear could only be subdued by running towards us not away. He became an off leash dog after that. Chicago San Francisco Denver, Brooklyn just a click or knicker and he was at my side.All I know is that I am living with my most favorite dog in the whole world.
The vet poked and shown instruments then nodded and said,
"It’s gone."
It's just an eye; just site it's not the memory of the beach nor trust it’s not his wagging tail. just his eye.
maybe its my own eye. or mortality or future or love or pain.
He may have a year but his other eye will follow.

It is a hopeless, incurable, degenerative disease- where you hope the eye drops can last long enough to waylay the pain-because as if the darkness wasn't hard enough there is pain in blindness REAL pain and finally, inevitably, mercifully, prosthetic darkness kind.