“They said why you died.”
“That I didn’t want to be tired, and sick?”
“Yes.”
“Good communicators.”
“They said you weren’t sad. You didn’t miss us.”
“I didn’t have to be sad. I knew we’re always together. I didn’t have the sense of loss that you had.” He looked up at me. “Have.”
“Lucky, it was so hard to watch you die, not have a word from you since.”
“I’m sorry for that. That was a mortal’s limited sense of life. A mortal dog’s too. Maybe I would have felt the loss if you had died and I stayed on Earth.” He looked into the forest, back again. “I came back, time and again. You could never see me. But I knew you’d see me when you died. A matter of beliefs. It will be no time since that happens.”
A matter of beliefs. What had happened? Has Lucky become a teacher for me?
“The end of a lifetime,” he said. “We can’t help but learn when we cross the Rainbow Bridge.”
“That’s a human’s story, The Rainbow Bridge.”
“It’s a loving thought, therefore true. Other reunions, but the Bridge, too.”
“I asked if you’
d come back. They said you didn’t know. If you did, someone would tell us of a little puppy, from someplace south of home.”
“I still don’t know. You’ll be moving soon. I’ll have to see about your place. I need lots of room to run. This place has spoiled me.” He looked up, to see if I smiled.
“I doubt I’ll be moving, Lucky.”
“We’ll see.”
“This place is your home. It’s mine, too.”
“No place on Earth is your home. You know that.”
We walked down the trail in silence, up to the house at the top. Lucky lay down on the porch. I sat close, leaned against the six-by-six support for the roof. He put his chin on my knee.
“We’re together now,” I said.
He didn’t move, didn’t change his expression, but his eyes, so serious, looked at me sideways.
That made me laugh, as always.
I smoothed the fur of his snow-bright neck, a brief loving touch.
If Lucky says he’s always with us, I thought, what does that say about his consciousness? There is no time and space. Love is everywhere. He’s happy. He’s learning. He cannot be hurt. He sees and knows us. He sees possible futures. He can choose to live with us again.
If it’s easy for a Shetland Sheepdog, why is it so difficult for me?
The nurse flicked on the lights, moved me one way and another, began changing the sheets.
“Thank goodness you came,” I said. “I was almost asleep!”
“It’s two a.m.,” she said sweetly. “We change the sheets at two a.m.”
I needed to leave this place. If I stayed, I was going to die. I missed my dog. I wanted to die.