Buckie with Valerie, my granddaughter

I've learned from past experience not to mention to most
people that my dog has died. Eight out of ten of them
would say, with little feeling, "Oh, that's too bad." And
then, inevitably, "I know where you can get another
dog.." Or, "Have you been to the shelter? They're
advertising all the time..."

And I feel like replying, "Say, that good friend of
yours that died? Not to worry. I'll help you find
another. Let's go to the mall. Lots of people walking
around there. We'll get one of them to be your friend."

Those who have had great relationships with dogs
know better. They know that dogs are not
interchangeable.

A former neighbor used to irritate me by saying she
was a dog lover and so was I.

I don't love all dogs anymore than I love all humans. I
care about their welfare, like being around most of
them, and have dearly loved two in my lifetime.

Yesterday I thought about planting something to cover
the bare ground where I dug Buckie's grave. I'd like a
blanket of roses, but they require sun and the grave is
shaded by trees near the creek where he splashed and
played, and where he went to drink first thing every
morning.

Paging through some catalogues, I found the perfect
plant: a kerria. This shrub, with its small fluffy
yellow blooms, has been around a long time. I've
heard it called a kitchen rose. It was described in
the catalogue as tolerating part sun but preferring shade.
Now I have to see if I can find one locally. The one in
the catalogue has double blooms, but I'd just as soon
have the old fashioned kind.

Not only do I want something to cover the bare ground,
but I keep thinking an attractive bush might ensure that his
grave remains undisturbed. I won't be here so very much
longer myself, and I don't want any subsequent owners
digging in that spot.

Writer's Block Road Block

The ordinary crises of daily life have kept me from
writing for this blog. And more. Getting a building
erected and moving about 8,000 books and pieces of
ephemera into it, a process still going on, along with
a winnowing of the books and bits because the building
from which they are being moved is about four times the
size of their destination. And more.

Three members of my family have died this year, most
recently the dog that has shared my life for a bit
more than thirteen years. And only those whose lives
have been as interdependent with that of a dog or cat
will understand when I say that my heart was pierced
more severely by his loss than by the loss of either
of my relatives. For I had contact with them only
occasionally, but Buckie was with me every day, greeted
me each morning and evening, rode along in the van with
me most of the time, and slept beside my bed each night.
I've had one other dog and one cat that I dearly loved,
and several that I liked a lot, but Buckie was the most
wonderful dog I have ever known. He leaves a big hole in
my life. All around me now are echoes of his absence.

Trying to be Thankful

Thanksgiving.
It's hard for me to give many thanks this year.

That first feast was later regretted by the Native Americans
who were persecuted and slaughtered by some of those
whom they had befriended; As a symbol of brotherhood,
it failed miserably for the African Americans imported as
slaves to raise, harvest, cook and serve the feasts. (Are
school children still being sent home with glowing tales of
the good pilgrims and the good Indians breaking bread
together? With drawings of fat turkeys and kindly
pilgrims?)

As a time of release from jobs when family and
friends can gather, it has some merit for all of us.
If we must be ruled by the calendar, then we must
seize those designated days and make the most of
them, though it would be better if we could create
our own holidays and celebrations.

And I will be thankful while I am with some of my
family this weekend, unendingly thankful that none
of them is missing from the table.

The world is so beautiful this year. The leaves are
falling, and the trees blaze gold and scarlet against
skies of a cool, autumn blue. The sunlight is mellow
and warm, punctuated by little chill breezes that
spring up now and then. How can it be so lovely just
now, for I am feeling again one of the penalties of living
so long- we outlive so many of those we love.

Two of my best friends, one I've known for 30 years,
the other since 1995, are living their last days.

I remember Charles Kuralt, during his Sumday
morning tv programs, telling us who had died
recently, and then saying:
"Oh, how can we ever do without them?"

And my heart now is echoing him, and he is
also among the missing and missed.