There were inspections and reports and modifications that needed to be carried out for the township to give us a certificate of occupation.
Meadow and I had waited for the inspector to leave before we both burst out laughing.
Thank fuck we had managed to have a sense of humor about the process because, otherwise, I could see the whole thing ruining relationships, making people throw up their hands, say that they not only didn’t want the house anymore, but each other either.
But they were just technicalities, things that needed to be fixed.
The difficulty was compounded by the fact that someone always had to be there, had to meet with the inspectors, oversee the changes, sign off on shit. And the cabin in the Barrens wasn’t exactly a quick or easy trip. And we couldn’t leave all the animals for any extended period of time.
We’d been apart a lot on and off during the renovations – sometimes Meadow staying back in the woods, sometimes me.
By the time we finally had the goddamn paperwork to sign, we just wanted the whole thing over with.
“Is that everything?” Meadow asked, looking around the very empty cabin.
It was a bittersweet thing to move on. To leave somewhere that had been home to most of your fondest memories.
“They’re just walls,” she told me, sensing my mood as we stood there near the door, looking around. “The memories come with us.”
It was a new chapter.
For us, of course, but maybe especially for me.
I won’t lie.
There had been moments of regret, of that niggling little voice of fear. I often had to remind myself that it wouldn’t be that much of a change. Not really. We would still be in a giant forest with no neighbors. We would still live off the land. We would still have our animals. We would still be far enough out of the way that no one would just pop over, show up without warning.
The only difference was, this was official.
There was paperwork.
There were people who knew where we were officially.
The man I had been before Meadow had come into my life would have been terrified of being found, of being legitimate in any official capacities.
Time – and the love of the right woman – could really change just about anything.
“Oh, wait,” she said, thrusting the box at me, making it wobble around on the other one I was already carrying as she rushed across the room to the top of the fireplace, reaching for something, coming back to me, opening her hand.
Captain’s collar.
The pain in her eyes was as fresh as the day he had climbed up beside her on the couch while she drank her coffee, rested his head on her legs, then fallen asleep.
And didn’t wake up.
She’d been absolutely inconsolable for a full week, unable to function, to stop crying. The tears came from a bottomless well deep inside, mourning the loss of her best friend, her most loyal companion, the first dog she had ever loved, her savior, her sentry, her foot warmer.
It had been three years since then.
And we had known a lot of loss.
We had a collection of collars.
But none hurt quite as much as his loss.
“I think it’s time,” she told me, clutching it to her chest.
“Time?”
“I saw this quote once on a dog rescue page once. It said something about how you should never say you could never get another dog after the loss of a beloved one, but that you should find an unloved one, honor the lost one’s memory by making another dog’s life better. I think it’s time. Captain would have wanted us to save more dogs. It was selfish to mourn this long.”
“Luckily, I know just the place,” I told her, wrapping my free arm around her back, curling her into my side.
I’d never been without a dog since having a warm place to keep one. And we had two still with us, old, arthritic, just enjoying their advanced ages on huge dog beds with an endless supply of treats.
But we were starting over.
We would have the room.
Have the land.
She was right.
It was time.
For so many things.
It was time for our new life to begin.
Meadow – 11 years
“I’m not saying you’re ugly,” Miller said, shaking her head at Jester, our newest addition. “But, well, you’re ugly, buddy. I’m sorry. It’s not my fault. Blame your mama and that deadbeat daddy of yours.”
To be fair, Jester was, indeed, the most unfortunate looking dog ever to walk this Earth. God only knew what his origins were. He had a long, tubular body like that of a Bassett Hound, but sky-high legs like a Great Dane, and an uneven smattering of the wiry gray-black hair of a Wolfhound.
“Don’t listen to your aunt,” I told him, patting his ridiculous, wide, Pitbull head. “You’re fine just how you are.”