Remembering This Little Light

I woke up this morning with the longing to remember the details of my morning one year ago today. I think it was a nice day. I know Rufus devoured his kibble and I’m sure I ate oatmeal. I don’t think there was anything unusual about our walk but I’m pretty sure I could have been more patient. I remember having lunch on the deck and Rufus barking at the squirrels as they teased him with their runs along the top of the fence below. I remember going inside to write and leaving him luxuriating in the sun.

It was all pretty usual but I remember the vague sense that as of late Rufus seemed to be even more determined to have my attention, was always ravenous, and our usual routine of four walks a day seemed insufficient. I now recognize that time as Rufus grabbing life with all his might. Memory is always insufficient for the days that in retrospect are filled with meaning. However, for better or worse, everything that happened after he collapsed at my feet is written with indelible ink.

It was a blurry drive to the vet, not because of memory but because I could barely see through my tears. His body that had served him so well with almost every desire now could hardly raise his head. I intuitively knew that this was our last drive. My neighbor offered to go with me as we carried him in a blanket to my car but so much of the last 12 years with Rufus was just he and I—so I declined. In retrospect I must have known that some good-byes need to be said with the curtain closed.
 
Anyone who has ever sat with a being as they take their last breath knows the unfathomable, unspeakable power of that moment. Before the vet administered the medicine, she warned me that Rufus would make a big gasp after he was gone—an involuntary response of the body releasing the last of its air. The transition from life to death is both fierce and serene. There is no good way to say this kind of good-bye—life only gives us glimpses of this kind of completion. I doubt we are ever ready. Yet it marches towards all of us without blinking. Our only choice is to hold it with as much love as we are capable. I know that Rufus’ exuberant, vivacious life form was confused when his body suddenly applied the brakes. I know that in the moment that defies understanding, Rufus felt held and loved.

On Monday I did a reading and discussion of Life on All Fours in Chicago at TPAN (an HIV/AIDS social service agency). The spirit of Rufus is alive and well. He still has not met a human he does not love!

Although many of you have seen this before, I offer this poem as my witness to the beautiful life I know as Rufus.

This Little Light
July 4, 2002—June 17, 2014
 
Halley’s Comet blazes across the sky
Too bright, too beautiful, gone too soon
Firecracker baby born on the Fourth of July
This little light of mine
 
Wiggle, wag, propeller tail, meant to soar
Red-brown beauty in motion, one speed—YES
Into cautious laps and hearts he flies
This little light of mine
 
Wonder and awe, with every pitter-patter
Paws that race to keep up with possibility
On a leash, at times tethered to reluctant feet
This little light of mine
 
“Yes you can,” wet nose inches close and closer
Slow down, wait, too messy, too much
Undaunted, his kiss always as close as he can
This little light of mine
 
“Oh the places we can sniff, you and me—you’ll see.”
Not this time, stop pulling, leave it
He shakes it off, lets it go, forgives, next time …
This little light of mine
 
“Everywhere you are, I want to be.”
The jingle of his tags like sacred chimes
Follows, bears witness, even as he snores
This little light of mine
 
How can this much life ever be dead?
Yet he leaves as he arrived
Too bright, too beautiful, gone too soon
This little light of mine
 
But in the tears is the warmth of his glow
His nose print forever on the window of my soul
Heart breaking yet full, this love has changed me
His little light IS mine