I was talking to Melodi again
yesterday. I had sent her a copy of the page in which I describe meeting My
Princess and My Buddy again. Of course, there’s a reference to Her Palmer on
that same page. Melodi has such a contagious spirit. Her melodious voice
virtually skips along the verbal pathway, and bids you consider the import of
her words. I always do.
More than once, in regard to My
Buddy, she’s responded, “Oh Bill. I’m so sorry.” And it’s obvious she has an
intimate understanding of such things, and there’s nothing shallow about her
words.
I want to believe My Little Buddy
hears me when I bend low over her grave site, and I whisper that revealing name.
She was My Little Buddy. She remains My Buddy. I still make the daily
pilgrimage. I water the flowers and pause a moment. The smell of oak pollen and
the brush of the wind against my face awaken my senses, and I can almost
visualize that Dear Little Shih Tsu… a scant few yards from where I linger.
For in life, My Little Friend
enjoyed this solitary place. This oasis of Oaks and Azaleas beckoned her to
rest awhile. To stretch herself in lush green grasses. To soak in the spring
sunlight, as if Today was all she would ever have. To linger here, as I now
linger here.
I would often peek out the back
window to check on her. She looked like A Miniature Sheepskin. Unmoving.
Unharried. Unhurried. And these sporadic opportunities to sun herself were
among her favorite moments. And I hesitated to rush her, for with each passing
year she relished those solitary sunlit moments all the more.
But eventually, I would call her
name, and more often than not, she was as unresponsive, as she now is in death.
It was as if, “If I ignore him, maybe he’ll go away,” and “Maybe he has stuff
to take care of, but the last time I checked my schedule it was empty.”
But ultimately, after much coxing,
My Buddy would yawn, stretch herself a final time, and stand to her feet. Even
with this, she lingered and hurry was the furthest thing from her mind.
And then reality replaces memory
and I turn from my daily pilgrimage and walk back up that well-worn pathway,
away from this regular respite of rocks and flowers; this soliloquy of solace
and silence.
It’s convenient for me to believe
that My Buddy now basks in The Light that will never fade. In that place where
basking and stretching and lingering knows neither beginning nor ending. I
think the grasses must be lusher there. I think the flowers must be fairer
there. I think the wind must be more winsome there. I think.
And though her master has given
way to her Master, and though our care has given way to His care, no one bids
her, “Come inside.” No voice bids her leave her solitary solitude. “Come in the
house” is never verbalized, since she is in The House.
And such fantasies comfort me like
none other. And I am too close to counting them reality. I just want, No I just
expect to see My Little Buddy again. I can’t imagine not doing so.
I dreamed about My Little Friend last
night; the first dream of its kind since her passing. And it occurs to me that
it’s already nebulous to me. Seems like the dream involved heaven. Seems like
it included My Buddy. Seems like The Master was trying to tell me something.
Seems like.
By Bill McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "My Little Buddy." Copyright 2017
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