Today is bright and shining like a polished emerald. At first the trees, grass, and bushes seem to blend into a sea of green, but closer inspection reveals each plant’s uniqueness in color and individual contribution to the whole.
Skipping a stone across a small lake in Central Alabama, I am reminded of doing the same as a child. Although I am more accurate today, the thrill of seeing the smooth flat stone skip twice, and often three or four times, is as I remember. The playmates of my youth have been replaced with a three-legged dog named Lucky and a small furry one named R.J.
R.J., who has traveled hundreds of miles in her sixteen years, struggles to catch up when Lucky and I stop at the lake. Mostly behind us, rarely ahead, R.J. is always there as we walk through the woods, stopping frequently to search for morsels of food left by previous visitors. Her life is a constant hunt for the bit of sandwich that has fallen.
Lucky continuously wags her pleasure at life, a necessary movement to remain balanced, but I choose to see it as an expression of joy at being alive. Like a deer, she hop-lopes toward an approaching group. A mother, father, and children out enjoying the day call to the sweet dog that leaps high into the air as she prances toward them. Anticipating that they may not notice Lucky’s missing leg, I go to greet them with her story ready.
“Wow! That dog only has three legs,” one of the children exclaims before I can say a word. Briefly my faith is restored as the youngest child sees what most do not. The questions fly fast…who, what, when, where, why?
I pause slightly before answering. Looking into innocent young eyes, I am tempted to soften my answer, but in the end I do not. She was rescued from a dumpster, I tell them, and fixed up like new, with three legs serving her as well as four could have. Wiggling with delight at the momentary attention, Lucky wags a final farewell as the group rounds the bend and vanishes; young voices wafting back deliver the only proof of our meeting.
R.J. continues her predictable habit of arriving well after anything she may have found the least bit interesting. Never an enthusiastic dog, R.J. manages a brief motion of her tail in recognition of Lucky and me. This greeting is familiar to all who know her. Most of us feel complimented she acknowledges us at all.
Almost half of my life has been spent caring for and tolerating R.J. Another rescue, she has spent her life totally committed to the pursuit of food. When not eating, sleeping, or dreaming of her next meal, R.J. will at times require a smidgen of attention, allowing me a brief moment to stroke her behind her ears.
Frisky and fluffy, she entered the world to look forever like a furry bat on four legs. Although many have complimented her cuteness, she is a cranky, seemingly always hungry, scruffy little half-pint ball of fur and teeth. R.J. knows the world revolves around her, and is jealous to the core. She allows Lucky only the smallest considerations and often nips at her only remaining back leg. R.J. is serious about driving away any competition for my affection. Sitting on my lap, she grins at Lucky with curled lips, gloating in her victory over the younger, stronger, and much bigger dog.
Seasons change and new smells fill the air. People come and go and yet our story line remains mostly unchanged. Like a long-running play, our days together are familiar. We appreciate this pattern and the special time we share. There is an understanding without words. Sitting between my furry friends, I feel at home. The friendship of these dogs is pure and their love unconditional. While I am away, I know they are curled up napping or rising occasionally to stretch or turn to a better position.
I often believe they lead boring lives, yet they seem happy enough. Outings to a park or lake are squeezed in when the schedule allows. Watching them roam and encounter new adventures is my reward. They wait patiently for signs of change in our daily routine. They allow me to cry, to be angry, and to love without expectation. They are there when I am sick, lonely, or confused, knowing that I am somehow different.
A time will come too soon, I am sure, when R.J. will leave us. I have allowed myself to daydream of how best to send off my friend. Each plan seems lacking, and my indecision affords me the hope that she will remain with me forever.
I am certain Lucky will not miss being taunted, but I wonder if she will miss the familiar smell of her little companion. Hesitant in the past to ride in the car without R.J., Lucky may again be suspicious. Our routine will change.
My friend’s passing will leave a void that will not easily be filled. Someday new routines will be established, broken now and then with outings. Lucky will lope toward a new adventure, and for some time I will turn frequently to glance back over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of my R.J. coming steadily after us—mostly behind, rarely ahead, but always there.
