Zoey’s last wander
Zoey has wandered off.
this time is for good.
For her good?
For good good.
She’s gone for a wander along the no-return trail.
we’re all walking a no-return trail.
there’s no going back,
(I can go back in time,
at least in my mind),
there was a fork in the trail.
On the first solstice-full moon in 50 years,
Mme Zoey heeded a dog-whistle
that I could not hear.
The independent grande-dame,
the great adventurer,
the escape artist,
took the trail “less travelled by”,
the one that can only be passed
but once in a lifetime.
Now if that path leads to paradise,
then that place must be full of stinky smells
and lots of spots where Zoey can stop to pee.
A veritable olfactory rainbow.
And paradise must be full of strangers
(all of whom are presumably olfactorily challenged),
lots of lovely strangers
whom Zoey can approach
for a stroke and a pat,
until another stranger happens by:
“Oooo, another of my friends who hasn’t met me yet”
Or more curiously,
who are strangers to me!
These are the many whom Zoey had met during past solo-wanders,
the ones who would walk up in the street,
greet Zoey by name,
and explain how they’d found her on the beach,
or how she’d once spent a night on their bed!
All of which reminds us
that we don’t “own” dogs.
How could we?
For surely possession is love’s anti-thesis.
Rather, we are part of Mme Zoey’s coterie,
some friends are rather more special than others:
e.g., those who serve freshly-roasted organic chicken
(thank you Karl)
or home-made stews
(thank you Sandy).
Yes, paradise must surely be populated
by those strange but friendly, unfurred people
like those she left behind.
On this side of the fork on the no-return trail,
I look past her former place at the window,
her empty bed and dirty, rumpled pillows;
past the balcony where we celebrated her departure
with a glass of champagne,
freshly baked doggy biscuits,
and a 21-nerf-gun salute;
past her now-permanent resting place
a few metres farther forward in the garden.
I see an infinite sea.
I feel the swell of waves
of grief advancing,
they lift and propel me forward,
whether willing or not.
There’s no going back.
That is the flipside of
“this too shall pass.”
Adieu Mme Zoey,
vous me manquez beaucoup.