How do you mark the chapters of your life?
I mark mine with a Golden Retriever.
February 13, 2008
By Rachel Bock
Some folks mark the end of an era when they lose their last baby tooth. Others can mark it when they first ride a bike without training wheels and stop believing in Santa Clause (which usually happens simultaneously, I think).
In my childhood, I marked the chapters with the gradual aging of an old friend.
When I was seven, Aggie was timid and red like the autumn leaves. Every day, she would jump up and perch her petite feet on the chain-link fence to greet a messy-haired, chubby kid in a plaid uniform.
She was there for the beginnings, for the birthday parties and the Easter egg hunts. She dodged softballs when my dad, brother and I played burnout catch. The edge of our yard was lined with a worn, muddy path from her daily patrols.
She was there for the endings, for the sunny afternoon when my neighbor kids’ U-Haul drove away. She was there when my brother packed his gold Saturn and drove east to Maryland and into adulthood.
And on the day I left for college, Aggie followed me about the house as I packed my suitcases. Her face, whiter then, watched from the front door as we loaded up the car.
On a chilly fall night two years ago, my parents called. My dad said Aggie couldn’t get around so well anymore.
“It’s time, kid,” my mom said. “You should probably come home now.”
Our living room was quiet that night. She lay on the floor next to our younger dog, Lenny, in front of the fireplace, and I knew that as she slowly faded away, so did a very special part of my childhood.
Aggie was my seventh birthday, my last baby tooth, my first home run and my first school dance. She was my good friend.
And now as she sleeps below a young tree, I remember her as she was, and me as I was, way back then.
Discussion
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Dogs can be wonderful reminders of friendship, childhood, and a life cycle that everyone is bound to complete. I remember the sadness I had when my first beagle passed away. Great post that evokes some strong memories of my own. Thanks, Rachel.
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