When last we met: “Thanks for everything. I’ll leave you three to say your last words to each other,” Grenn said. “After the magic fades your Daddy won’t be able to understand what you’re saying again until next year around this time.” Dejah and Summer and I looked at each other. “Oh,” Dejah said.
As the elfin beings entered the woods and were no longer visible, I looked at my two golden retrievers, who had bravely faced down the storm and weathered the adventure like the heroines they were. What do you say when you won’t be able to speak to each other for another year?
“Dejah, Summer, I just have to say —” I began, sitting down on an easy chair.
“No, you don’t,” Dejah said, resting her head on the arm. “This is our time to talk. We understand you just fine all the time, but we won’t be able to tell you anything with words.”
“So you do understand me all the time?” I said, a little smile forming. “So when I say, ‘Summer, come in the house,’ you’re just refusing?”
“Well, sometimes I don’t wanna,” Summer said with a rueful look.
“The Time of Magic is almost over, so let me say something, or several somethings,” said my 11-year-old puppy. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“Well, you’re welcome, Dejah,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve had to play second fiddle for most of your life. First, there was Willow, and then you ruled the roost for only five months before we brought Summer home.”
Dejah smiled the way only golden retrievers can smile.
“Anyone could see that Willow was the best dog who ever lived, and everyone loves the puppy best, even when it’s a goof like Summer,” Dejah said.
“Hey!” Summer said, but they both wagged their tails.
“And you and Mom gave me plenty of puppy love back in the day,” Dejah continued. “Anyway, the second fiddle is still a darn good player, and you never treated me like anything less than one of the two best dogs there are.”
“Well, you are,” I said, “and you were Mom’s puppy. I’m so sorry Mom had to leave.”
“It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t her fault. She got sick and then she died. You told us,” Summer said. “We know. We always knew. It makes us sad, but we never blamed you.”
We were all silent for a little while.
And then Dejah said, “So thank you. This probably is the last time I’ll be able to say the words so you can hear them, so I want to say it now. You’ve always taken care of me and made me feel loved.”
“Of course you’re loved, you little goombah,” I said, surprised that I could speak at all because I sure couldn’t see through the watery film. “In any case, we’ll pick up this conversation next October, when the Time of Magic rolls around again.”
Dejah looked at me with compassion. “Daddy,” she said, “you’ve never had a 12-year-old golden retriever.”
I knew what she was saying, and I refused to hear.
“Well, then, you’ll be the first,” I said. “You’re a pretty feisty old broad.”
“You two are so serious,” Summer said. “Let’s play!” And suddenly she ran from the love seat to the kitchen and back to the love seat and back to the kitchen and back to the love seat and into my office and back to the kitchen and back to the love seat.
“Do you know there’s a word for that, Goof?” I said.
“A word for what?” Summer said, panting.
“Zoomie. You just did a zoomie.”
“I like that word! Zoomie!” she shouted, and did a few more rounds around the living room.
Dejah shook her head. “Kids.”
In a little while I climbed into bed, and Summer jumped up near my feet, and Dejah settled in the doorway to the bedroom, our usual positions.
“Thanks for the adventure, girls,” I said. “I love you.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Dejah said without lifting her head as she sprawled in the doorway. “We love you, too.”
“What she said, Daddy,” said Summer, the kind and gentle but shy big puppy.
The room went quiet, and soon the three of us were dreaming of dragons and eagles and white-tailed deer and [unpronounceables].
