THE DOG WHO RAN AWAY FROM HEAVEN by Thad Buckley

Some of you may not believe this story. Some of you, like me, will believe it because we want to. We hope it’s true. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Whatever we believe, well, we’ll find out the truth one day. So, for now, just pretend it’s real while you read this story.

At my age, I’ve become quite familiar with Death. Not personally, but he’s taken many of my family and friends. So I can sometimes feel him, not hiding around the corner, but walking next to me. Waiting for me to trip. He’s not anxious. Just ready.

  I used to be afraid of him. I had no idea where he would finally take me. A good place. A bad place. Maybe no place at all. As I got older, I thought about it more. When I talked to other people, it didn’t help. There must be a hundred ideas about what comes next. So I talked to my confidant—my dog.

  She was a small Poodle. Small only on the outside. Strangers had to stand away from me while they talked. One step closer caused a growl. Two steps, she showed fangs. Three steps closer—nobody ever tried that.

  She loved going places in my motorhome. I looked for secluded camp grounds and usually spent half of each day at my small laptop, writing. She would lay next to me on the sofa that became my bed at night. Every hour or so, she made the rounds, looking out all the windows, and snuffing at the door. Then back beside me. There could be no doubt. Her job was protector, and companion.

  We especially liked rainy days. We both had raincoats, and caps, and we took long walks. I loved the smells, the feel of the water running down my neck, the rumbling thunder and lightning.  She found the earthworms that squiggled out of the dirt fascinating.

  We had three years like that. My wife had died, and the motorhome had been our dream. Joan had given me a puppy when her cancer got bad. When the outcome was certain. She named the puppy Jazz, short for our favorite music. Classical Jazz. Jazz loved to lay on her chest and look into her eyes. Joan insisted she found peace in the puppy’s brown eyes. Back then, I liked the dog, but I could only see an empty life ahead without my wife. Joan all along insisted I follow our dream. After she was gone, I tried to forget our plans. Every time I looked at Jazz, I remembered. Finally, I gave in.

It wasn’t a big motorhome. I wanted it to feel temporary. A place to grieve, a place to get away from my memories. But that didn’t work. Every time I looked at Jazz, I remembered something of Joan. Then, one day, I finally understood. Joan gave me a puppy so that I would remember her. To cherish the memories. She knew that you can’t forget love.

So Jazz became the part of Joan that would live our dream with me.

The loss was still painful, but time did make it more bearable. One day, walking back from the beach, I looked ahead at the motorhome. Three years, I realized. I sat down on the sand, and stared back at the ocean. Jazz stood and licked my cheek. “Maybe it’s time, Jazz.” She barked excitedly. I had to smile. This little dog knows what I’m saying. Or maybe she can read my mind. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she could do both.

The real estate lady looked very attractive. She couldn’t believe that a bearded, long haired almost-hippie could seriously be looking for a house. The edges of her mouth turned up slightly every time she looked at me. “You’re certain that you want a three-bedroom house. For you and the dog?”

Jazz didn’t like her. Not at all. I decided to go with how the dog felt.

“Well, three. Maybe four.  I’m single, and sometimes my lady friends don’t like to sleep in the same room.” I gave her what I hoped was a sexy smile. “I’m sorta bashful, too. It’s hard to get—you know—playful, with one lady when another one is watching.” Her eyes opened wide. “Do you ever do threesomes?” I asked.

The next town actually looked more like a place I’d like to settle in. I found a home near a lake with walking paths wandering through trees. Tall grass grew in small meadows and looked like waves when the wind blew. Often, as I sat, back against a tree with Jazz at my side, it took only minutes before the wildlife ignored us. Birds flew, chattering, from one tree to another. Some seemed to be singing, while others complained. Rabbits bounced through the grass. Squirrels zipped up and down tree trunks. We came here often, always if it rained, because then all the animals were quiet. Then the only sound was the wind, as it pushed through the trees and flung rain drops even into protected areas—like under my cap. My glasses always seemed like a rain magnet.

The neighbors were cautious at first. I didn’t look like them, I worked at home, and to most of them, it seemed as though I didn’t really have a job. A writer? They probably shook their heads. I better damn well not write about them.

After a few months, I got a haircut, shaved, and started wearing shoes. Jazz and I started walking up and down the local streets, just to get acquainted. The neighbors started waving, sometimes sharing some shocking local news. I guess that’s when Jazz figured out which houses had men living in them, and which didn’t.

Soon, right after breakfast, she scooted out the doggie door and picked one of those houses. The first lady, Maxine, stood holding Jazz as she rang my bell. “Your poor little dog got lost, I think, and I found her crying by my fence.”

“Come in, please,” I said. I knew that Jazz wouldn’t get lost in a Brazilian jungle on a dark night. I guessed what she was doing.

Maxine and I soon became an item. Not for long. She took great pride in being organized. Her schedule changed every fifteen minutes. Even sex. First, separate showers. Then she donned sexy underthings—really sexy. But I could only touch them carefully, and then she took them off, and took time to carefully fold each item. Finally, into bed. Things there were timed also, but I won’t get into those.

Interestingly, these sessions brought back memories of Joan. Vivid. She liked to take a shower while I was engrossed in my writing. Then, to get my attention, she would snap me with her towel. Of course, that left nothing to the imagination. “Catch me if you can!” This all resulted in a very pleasant afternoon.

Maxine and I parted ways.

Then, Jazz came home with, if you can believe it, a lady who called herself Bunny. I tried, but I could not get the word Bunny out of my mouth. I called her everything—dear, sugar, peanut—it got to be an issue. Then one day, we were in the kitchen.

“Do you ever sing when you’re in the kitchen?” Joan always did.

“Are you bullshitting me? Why would anyone sing in the kitchen? Get real!”

I did.

So, after a talk, Jazz let me pick my lady friends. I enjoyed being with many of them, but nothing serious ever came up.

Jazz died young. She reached ten, but cancer got her, too. I held her on my lap when the vet gave her the injection to end her pain. She let out a little ‘Yip.’ He apologized. “I hope I didn’t hurt her.”

“No,” I told him. “She just said goodbye. For now.”

Years later, I went walking on our lake trail. It was sprinkling. I took my glasses off to wipe them, and there she stood. A little ahead, about a foot off the ground. My Jazz! I walked toward her and she looked back, like she always had, waiting for me to catch up. Then … gone.

I went over and over the scene. Did I really see her? I knew I did. Was I getting senile? I didn’t think so.

That night, I had a dream. A little white Poodle sneaked out of the golden gate to tell me what I had always wondered. To tell me not to worry. She and Joan were waiting. A good place. It was something that Jazz would do. I hoped she didn’t get into trouble.

I woke up smiling. I wondered if they have rainy days there.

I hope so.