“You’d think he’d be grateful to the donkey for taking it off his hands, er . . . paws . . . whatever. With Beau’s hips bothering him these days, he can barely get all the way around his own area, let alone the pasture. It’s taking him longer and longer to complete his rounds, poor guy.”
I pulled the rake across the clean stall material to even it out. There isn’t a better smell than wood chips and hay, mingled with manure, cedar, and sweet feed.
“Flash hasn’t helped the situation, though,” Tom said wryly. He crumpled the bag of wood shavings and moved over to the donkey. “Most of the time, he treats Beau like he barely exists. I mean, he’s happy to let the dog hang out at a distance, and he doesn’t seem to care that we pay attention to him. But you never really see him act friendly with him, either. There’s definitely a wall there.”
“It’s like they’re indifferent toward each other,” I concluded. “I think they decided early on that they would coexist and cooperate, like how they tag-team our walks, yet not become emotionally involved with each other.”
Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Emotionally involved? Right, Dr. Phil. I don’t know how ‘emotionally involved’ a donkey can be.” Just then Flash rubbed his ears on Tom’s arm and gave him a soulful look. Tom wrapped Flash’s neck in a hug, his cheek resting on the knob of his head.
“Uh-huh. Well, he’s certainly emotionally involved with you,” I observed. “Look at him. He loves you!”
“What, this? Nah, this is just us messing around.” He gave Flash a playful push to prove it. Flash returned the affection by leaning back into him, knocking Tom off balance and garnering a snicker out of me. I could have sworn Flash smiled.
From his isolation spot, Beau whined in jealousy. He loved nothing better than a bit of roughhousing, and it hurt his feelings not to be invited to play.
“What a shame. Beau is such a great dog, and Flash is a perfect donkey. Think of all they’re missing! Do you think there is any hope for friendship between them?”
Beau struggled to his feet, and I could see he was already stiff from overdoing it in the pond. His right back leg didn’t want to cooperate with his forward motion, and it sort of hung suspended for the first few steps back to the house. Although he’d never admit it, roughhousing would have been out of the question anyway.
That night, Beau made it only halfway up the steps to Grayson’s room. The landing would have to do for now, and he lowered himself down with a groan. Back end collapsing, front end following suit. Black nose on giant paws. The faint aroma of eau de pond.
I wish now that Last Times would come with big signs that say, “This is the Last Time.” Then you would know that you should savor them, no matter how inconsequential they are. Like the last time you put sugar in your tea before you swore off sweets, or the last time you used a push mower, or the last time you tucked extra underwear in your kid’s backpack, just in case. You might have stopped to just feel the moment, breathe it in, and let it get fixed in your memory like a Polaroid photograph.
The last time you rocked your baby to sleep. The last time you stepped on a Lego piece in the middle of the night. The last time you tasted your grandmother’s rhubarb pie. The last time you kissed your father good night. If you had known it was the last time, you would have closed your eyes and said to yourself, I must remember this. I must remember the smell of this kitchen and this coffee and this pie. I must remember this scratchy flannel shirt and this smell of Old Spice. I must remember the feel of this downy head on my shoulder, and this milky breath and these tiny fingers curled around a blankie.
You’d say, I must remember this dog, and how he slept on a hooked rug next to a boy’s bed.
Instead, you rush on. You think there will be a hundred other times, exactly like this one, and you look at your watch or mutter some annoyance or answer the phone or become distracted in some way. You don’t fix it in your mind, you don’t stop, and you don’t feel it. Because why should you when there will be other chances, and life is so busy, and there are so many things to do? You’ll savor it next time, or maybe the time after that one. You didn’t realize at the moment that this—this would be the last time. It wouldn’t be coming around again. And you missed it.
I missed it.
That’s how I felt about the last time Beau curled up next to Grayson’s bed. It had come and gone without me even realizing it. Gray was almost grown-up, and it seemed like the lamp on his nightstand was always on much later than mine as he worked on calculus equations and physics problems for the next day’s homework assignment. “What time do you need to get up in the morning?” I’d ask, already thinking about tomorrow’s tasks as I kissed his head and picked up socks from the floor.
When the landing on the stairs became the new place Beau liked to sleep, I figured it was because he received a pat on the head from every person who passed by. I didn’t really stop to think that he’d never make it to the second floor again and into the boy’s room for another night. Or that soon, he’d only make it to the rug by the fireplace because climbing to the landing halfway up the stairs would be too much work for those arthritis-ridden legs.
When the day came where Beau went outside and surveyed the property from the edge of the yard instead of walking the fence line and marking his whole territory, I never really imagined he had permanently retired from his sentinel duties. Lately, he simply watched the Explorer make its way up the driveway, choosing to greet us at the door rather than meet us on the road and race us home. I guess I missed the last run, too.
“Hey, Old Guy,” we called him. Beau was hard of hearing and not able to see well, but his tail still worked beautifully—thump, thump, thump. Sensing a simple turn of the head in his direction, he’d start thumping his tail in anticipation of attention. By now, we were regularly hosing him off outside. The smell was exactly what you’d expect from an incontinent dog—and that’s when all the Last Times began to dawn on us.
“Hey, Old Guy, let’s go get the mail,” I said, looking for a reason to get him up from his bed in the kitchen. “It will be good for you to get a little exercise.” It took a while to convince him to leave his soft cushion, but he managed to make his way to the door and over the threshold. Immediately I could see that a half-mile round-trip walk to the mailbox would be too much.
“On second thought, let’s just check on Flash’s water instead.” We switched course and turned toward the gate. Flash was at his salt block, which sits in the shade of the cedar trees that line the fence. His tongue methodically worked over the red-colored brick of minerals, his eyes half-closed as he licked. At the sound of our feet, he looked up and immediately made his way toward us. He met Beau and me at the fence post, where the dog tucked his tail and sat sideways on his best leg.
The passage of time seemed to be softening the donkey’s attitude as well as his rules. As I paused to lift the chain, he lowered his oversize head to Beau’s level. Flash’s big brown eyes rested on the dog’s soft eyes, now cloudy with age, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment. The donkey’s nostrils opened wide as he gently sniffed at the dog, who brought his nose up to the white muzzle that reached across the divide. Four hooves on one side of The Line, four paws on the other. Two sets of ears pricked forward. Two noses, meeting in the middle.
“Well, how about that?” I whispered. Wonders never cease. I eased the gate open to step inside, then nudged Flash over so I could open it wide enough for the dog to go through. Beau hesitated, then crossed The Line and turned to the donkey, tail slowly wagging. Flash gave him an amiable nod, ears turning, eyes welcoming, and together the three of us headed to the water bucket—at the halting pace of a gimpy Lab. A thaw had begun.
For as often as you wish you could know when something is the Last Time, you’ll find a way to pretend that a Real Last Time isn’t one. Years earlier, when I’d said good-bye to my grandfather, who was in a wheelchair and suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, I pretended that I’d be back to the nursing home real soon
. It isn’t the last time, I said to myself. I’ll be back and we’ll talk about baseball, and he’ll show me some moves he learned as a catcher, and we will plan to make lutefisk and lefse, his favorite Norwegian delights.
When we locked the door to our house in the city for the last time, we acted as if we were going on vacation. “Did we turn off the water? Check to see that the lights were off? Is the back gate closed? Now, let’s go have some fun on the beach, or in the mountains.” We tried not to look in the rearview mirror as we left the neighborhood where our kids had spent their early childhood years. “We’ll take lots of pictures while we’re away,” we said, “and then we’ll return and pick up right where we left off. Everybody buckled in?”
When each of the kids drove off to college, down the driveway in a cloud of dust, we tried to pretend they were just going to the store, maybe to get some milk or a loaf of bread. They’ll be right back, we told ourselves, swallowing the lumps in our throats and fighting back tears. Silly to cry over a trip to the store. Just busy yourself in the kitchen or something, and they’ll be back in a minute.
Oh, who are we kidding?
This is the last time, and things will never be the same. It’s the truth. I fumble for a tissue and blow my nose. The tears fall, and my bones feel like mush. My head hurts. I hate facing the reality that something precious is gone.
I didn’t think I was the type to grieve over a dog. After all, I was the one who complained about all the dog hair and all the dirt those paws brought in. The nose prints on the glass door annoyed me. I was so tired of cleaning up after him. And then there were the big blue pads, lined with plastic on one side, absorbent paper on the other. The leaky, elderly dog made the whole house smell. But I loved that dog, and I loved how he was woven into our family history. I loved that he was always there for us. None of us could imagine life without him, and here I was, grieving already.
When the inevitable finally came, Tom dug a grave for the yellow Lab and set white stones all around to mark it. I didn’t watch him dig it, and I didn’t want to see the fresh mound of earth. I wanted to pretend Beau was down at the pond for an afternoon swim, and that he’d be hungry for dinner and that I’d grouse about him smelling like pond water. But eventually, I made my way to the clearing under the trees to pay my respects and say good-bye. Grayson, Lauren, and Meghan each did the same, on their own time and in their own ways. Tom cried for days, he took it so hard. Mercy, I love that man.
Then it was Flash’s turn. We haltered him up and clipped on the lead in silence. He walked readily alongside us, eager for a stroll in the world beyond his pasture. We’d been working on improving his skills on a lead, and we were pleased with his progress. Halfway to Beau’s grave, he became engrossed in the grass and took a detour into the yard. Perhaps he wanted to pretend it was just another practice walk, and not a last good-bye. I couldn’t blame him; I knew just how he felt. “Come on, buddy. Let’s keep going,” Tom said, giving a gentle tug on the rope before they continued on together. I followed quietly behind, wanting to give Flash space to take it in.
Flash approached the circle of stones with some reluctance, then brought his head down to smell the new mound. His deep exhale blew the loose soil, and the tiny leaves that had fallen there fluttered up and settled back down. I didn’t expect him to say much, and true to form, he didn’t. He blinked and turned his ears, then shifted his weight off his back hoof and rested it. From the look of his posture, we would be here awhile. As it should be. Tom wiped his cheek with his sleeve as he squatted down next to the donkey’s head. Flash understood.
Flash and Beau didn’t have a whole lot in common except a love for their people—us. Maybe that was enough. Enough to push them past their petty differences and make them set aside their pride. Maybe they sensed that Last Times were upon them and decided they’d been feuding long enough.
I remembered how Beau had accompanied Flash on guard duty in the pasture that last summer. Flash kept his pace slow for the once-powerful dog who needed to rest every so often before proceeding on. Beau reveled in the morning breezes that blew across the field, his tail wagging and his nose taking in every scent. Flash nibbled on the dry grass as he waited for his friend to mark a new spot or follow a bunny trail. “Take your time,” he said with his ears. The donkey never rushed him. Beau repaid his kindness by keeping him company at feeding time and by humoring the occasional brays that once drove him crazy. He remained nearby like an old companion, graciously accepting Flash’s opinions and offering a few of his own.
Forgiveness—friendship—had been long in coming, but it arrived just in time. As they held one another’s gaze, their eyes said it all:
“I’m sorry I kicked at you.”
“I’m sorry I offended you with my exuberance.”
“I was wrong to keep you out.”
“I never meant to bother you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you drink from my bucket.”
“I’m sorry I drank out of it when you weren’t looking. And licked the edge.”
It seems like it’s always the small stuff that keeps us apart. The tiny infractions that become larger than life as they fester over time. Lines get drawn. Sides are taken. Heels dig in. “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.” “Here are my rules, and don’t you dare break them.” “This is my territory, and you’d better not enter.”
How often do I behave exactly as these two animals had—allowing myself to become offended over some little event . . . getting angry over something insignificant? Just the tip of the iceberg, I say inwardly. Don’t give an inch. It’s the principle of the thing.
And on principle, I refuse to forgive. I withhold love. Judge another. Draw that line.
What a shame.
There at Beau’s grave, I looked at Flash, with his lower lip drooping and expression sorrowful. His hair was starting to thicken with the approaching autumn season, and it made his face look fuller, fatter. He was lucky that his Last Times with Beau had come with signs. He’d been able to make amends and enjoy their remaining time together. In that moment, I loved Flash more than ever for personifying forgiveness and acceptance and tenderness. And I loved him for mourning the passing of his friend. It went straight to my heart.
Ephesians 4:2 says this: “Always be humble and gentle. Be patient with each other, making allowance for each other’s faults because of your love.”
We are imperfect creatures, all of us. What a shame to waste our time on trivial differences and self-made rules rather than savoring forgiveness and love and enjoying the richness they bring. We should take someone’s hand. We should look our loved ones in the eyes. We should hold a gaze and say the words “I’m sorry” and “I was wrong” and “I forgive you.” We should. We must. And we must also say the words “I love you” while we still can. This time may be the last chance we’ll ever have, but we won’t know it until it is gone.
Don’t miss it.
Make things right with others.
Don’t miss your chance to forgive, accept, and love.
MISSING DONKEY.
My heart pounded with anxiety as I typed the words and formatted them in the biggest, boldest font I could fit on a page. The coffee I’d gulped down earlier that day churned in my stomach as I added my phone number and printed off the flyers to staple to telephone poles. I should have eaten a piece of toast, but the thought of food now made me feel sick, given the situation. My hands shook as I gathered the papers from the printer and grabbed my stapler.
Flash was gone.
Oh, where was he?
We had no idea. I couldn’t believe this had happened. Our donkey was lost. Posting signs to nearby poles was the only thing left I could think of to help us locate Flash and bring him home.
I went over the last twenty-four hours. Weather reports had warned of overnight storms, so we’d spent the evening putting lawn chairs inside, making sure windows were closed, and securing anything we thought might blow away. This is when bein
g married to a true Northerner with a siege mentality is exceptionally advantageous.
I had put some extra hay in Flash’s hayrack and given him a good-night pat, but I left the stall door open so he could spend the night wherever he wanted. He still preferred the creek bed in the woods to the noisy metal barn, especially during storms. By now he knew where to stay sheltered, and though I had offered my sensible advice to stay inside the structure, I didn’t worry about him.
As promised, the night brought gusty winds and driving rain. Tom and I lay in bed and tried to sleep while we listened to the roof make cracking noises and endured the sounds of branches scraping the windows. “Isn’t a fit night out for man nor beast!” Tom quipped in his best Yukon Cornelius voice, and we laughed at the time, feeling happy we’d prepared for it.
Only now it didn’t seem so funny. By morning’s light, we had found downed branches strewn around the property, trash cans overturned, and worst of all, a pasture gate blown off its hinges into the muddy ground. Uh-oh.
Tom and I clomped through the black clay, which stuck to the bottoms of our boots and added an inch to our overall heights. We put the gate back into place and secured it with rope.
“Hopefully Flash didn’t notice the gate down and decide to get out. Any sign of hoofprints?” I asked, peering at the ground around the gate. To our relief, we couldn’t see a single one, and we breathed a premature sigh of happiness. At least Flash is all right, we thought. Just to be on the safe side, we decided to split up and check the rest of the gates and fences. I headed off toward the barn to set out some morning hay and called for him to come for breakfast.
But no Flash came. I waited. Called again. Waited some more.
No donkey.
“Are you sure there weren’t any hoofprints?” I queried Tom in the house, then insisted he go back and inspect one more time.
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