Usually it’s the old dog who wakes the rest of us up around 3 a.m. This time it was the old man and his bladder.
As often happens now that she’s officially an ancient dog, I peered carefully at Dejah to make sure she was breathing as I walked past. In the semi-darkness I couldn’t really tell until she moved her head slightly.
Business taken care of, I settled back into bed, and the thoughts that occurred when I considered Dejah’s inevitable future lingered with me. I started thinking about the imponderables — even those who believe those who believe in Jesus shall not perish but have eternal life wonder what becomes of us when our earthly vessels die, and whether our departed loved ones are still aware of us as we go about living our lives — and then I dwelt on the practical aspects of disposing of a departed dog’s remains, and bills coming due, and responsibilities for tomorrow — and I was just about to give up and start my day at 3:30 a.m. when Summer jumped on the bed.
In an unprecedented move, my younger dog stood over me and sniffed at my face, and then she curled up tight against the curve formed by my chest and my knees. It was the sweetest, most soothing and comforting moment of our lives together.
We lay there like that for quite some time, and just before I drifted off to sleep again, Summer rose and took her customary spot curled up at my feet, and we spent the rest of the night like that. It was if we needed each other at that moment to chase away the stormy thoughts.
Does a dog sense when her human companion is beset by the imponderables and needs reassurance? I can’t explain a dog any more than I can say exactly where our souls go when we die. All I know is that Summer was the conduit to a peace beyond understanding that got me through the night.
