MEMOIR
Boo’s Final Walk
And the value of living in the moment
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The year is 2020 and it’s Thanksgiving day. It’s a crisp, bright, and vibrant fall and the politics of a contentious year are lingering thick in the air. Political signs still stubbornly litter lawns beneath the canopies of Pennsylvania trees. Maples, oaks, and dogwoods are each adorned in varied shades. There are electric yellows and ensanguined reds, and amber, earthy oranges.
My family and I are driving into a local arboretum with our smiling, loving, and slightly-panting cockapoo, Boo. She’s had a trying couple of months, but looking into her enthralled and focused eyes, you can hardly tell.
After two rounds of antibiotics, a case of giardia, and her life’s third battle with Lyme disease, it’s finally beginning to look like she might fight to see another year. She’s got a weak and tired gaze stained by 17 years of adventure, but a warm, tender, and enduring smile. A tongue droops gleefully over a dappled chin of white, brown, and black. Her hair is fluffy and disheveled, and her tail is wagging back and forth with a virulent intensity. If she has a care in the world, she refuses to let it show.
