A Dog Called Perth
Page 16
Love, Barbara
The jubilation in our rented house after I read the letter out loud can be imagined. We danced around the living room. “My gosh, my gosh, my gosh,” Cindy shouted. “Perth is still alive!”
“It’s like the Resurrection,” I chimed in. “Perth has been reborn. She’s immortal! Eternal! She’s like the phoenix that rises out of the ashes of everyone else’s fears and doubts. What a dog!”
Andrew understood perfectly what had happened.
“Just think,” he screamed, “in a month we’ll see her again! I can’t wait to run out into the field with her.” Claire caught the spirit of the moment and jumped on everybody in excitement. But not for some time afterward did she understand the issues of life and death, of gloom and triumph, through which we had suffered.
“And Barbara says she’s doing well, too,” Cindy added. “To think of it, for eight months we’ve thought she was gone. Now, with one letter, that’s been banished. It never was real. I just know she’ll be with us for a long time still. And we’re never going to leave her again, no matter what.”
I agreed. And this time I knew I would never leave Perth again. It could be no other way. She had survived everything.
We arrived in England in late May on a sunny, clear morning. The landscape was resplendent with the joy of the sunshine. The rambling roses were draped in profusion over walls and gates, the trees were dressed in their fresh, clean greenery, the fields were robed in emerald and the purple wisteria was hanging everywhere. Everything sparkled with the early morning dew. England had never looked so beautiful to us, and it was good to be alive.
We drove into Bury in late morning, up the Hollow, and into the kennel. Our hearts were thumping wildly. Who would have guessed on that depressing morning nine months ago when in despair I carried Perth toward what we thought was her last stop that we would now be returning to pick her up again. Our sad hearts were replaced by a bright morning hope in the fresh spring.
Barbara had never been so thrilled to see us. We all hugged her this time. There she stood in her large dressing gown amid her dogs in the farmyard, the angel who had brought Perth’s deliverance. We thought she should be canonized. Saint Barbara of Hollow Farm. She walked briskly over to get Perth. In a few seconds we saw her emerge from the barn, looking so well. She may not have seen us clearly across the yard, but she ran toward us, limping slightly but still running. Her coat was clean and shiny, like the day. We met her halfway and took her up in our arms. She smelled good, so real. Was I imagining it, or were there tears in her eyes?
Then with a goodbye to Barbara it was on to Appletree Cottage. It was wonderful to behold, the wisteria hanging from the vines on the cottage in large globes of purple, and flowers everywhere. We ran into the garden and breathed the summer air blowing in fragrances from across the fields. The views were reassuring and magical. The river below wound its way along the valley in vivid blue. Perth set herself immediately to sniffing around the whole place, her tail wagging furiously. Life was starting again for her. And for us.
Since settling in Bury we had had many idyllic English summers, but that summer was the zenith of joy. We were all together, all the time. Perth continued in good health. She hobbled around still, her hearing poor and her eyesight dimmed, but she was in no pain. And she stayed well. She was nineteen that summer. Two more years she lived, reaching the human equivalent of 147 years of age. And what a life of courage, stamina, adventure, freedom and survival it had been. She had not been everyone’s favorite. But she was a genius among dogs.
We buried her in the garden. There she lies today. The lawnmower runs over her, the children play above her, Cindy and I lose ourselves in the glorious views over the hedge next to her, always lowering our eyes to her permanent corner in the garden, thinking of the twenty-one years when she roamed unfettered over the earth.
I’m telling this story about Perth many years after she died. As I think back over time, I see that my own youth has gone. Our children have grown up, I’ve taught for what seems like centuries, and now we spend half the year in Spain, half still in Appletree Cottage in our beloved West Sussex. But it is as if Perth is still with us. We talk about her all the time. Those unhappy days in Vermont still hurt me when I think of them. She was a dog larger than life, not your typical adorable pet, not the kind of dog you will find as the heroine of a book or movie. The suffering she caused us is nothing of course compared to the yoke of human misery we hear about every day all over the world, nothing compared to the private tragedies and public calamities that damage the lives of millions. But Perth nevertheless was a powerful shaper of our lives, at times causing us the profoundest agony. She also brought us enough adventure, drama, and joy to last a lifetime. She changed us forever. I often think it is one of life’s incongruities that a dog like Perth can live only twenty-one years and that people like us have to live out the rest of our days without her. Our children took over from her, but of course Perth was irreplaceable. There has not been a day since her death when I have not thought of her. I am content.
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no Angel’s wing, no Seraph’s fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
—Alexander Pope