Old Dog Dreams — Pam Drago

I wonder what my old dog dreams.

Is it of vast fields, the grass fragrant and wild and soft, brushing gently against her chest and belly as she bursts headlong with no aim, no goal or purpose other than to set free the spirit of her own terrier heart? Or is it of the sun on her face, warm and smelling of life? Yes, life has a very particular odor to dogs. It emanates from very particular things. In addition to sunlight, dogs sense it in their human’s skin, in the rim of the metal bowl holding cool water, in the backseat of the journey-car, and in the plaid blanket they nestle into each night, ready for sleep.

I imagine my old dog dreams, too, of taking the stairs on her own, of having no pain in her bones, of standing sturdy and strong on the sleek wood floor without her feet slipping out from under her like frightened birds scattering at the sound of clapping hands - a sound my old dog no longer hears. We use gestures now to get her attention. Does she dream of my voice? Does she even remember it? Is it buried in her happy dog memories along with the opening crack of a food can, the squeak of a toy in her gleefully gnashing jaws, and the crash of high tide against the shore?

My old dog loves the beach. She used to chase the waves, barking with abandon, her high pitched yelps full of sass and vigor. The girl did not hold back. But now she barely acknowledges the waves as we move glacially across the sand to the point, like we always have, where we sit and breath the air rich with salt and brine. Sometimes, on a good day, when we’re walking back to the cabin, my old dog is visited by her former self, channelling her youth like a grand dame medium. She begins to trot, back leg hitching until a familiar rhythm is found and she breaks into an all-out run. In her younger years, we’d shout after her, worried she’d keep going, past the cabin, up the drive, towards the main road that ribbons through the island, north to south. But we don’t worry about that now. We know her limitations - though we don’t say them aloud. These days, she stops at the cabin door, grizzled and glassy-eyed, and she waits like she has for the past seventeen years. Her own migratory path. They say the older memories are the last to go. Sometimes as we round the pile of driftwood and can see the cabin’s front porch, I secretly hope she won’t be there, that the recollection of her glorious past will push her onward, those little legs going and going until the joy inside her weighs more than the pain, and she’ll forget she’s an old dog, and simply just a dog. And what a good dog she is.

My wife and Isabel at Long Beach, WA 2014