From Woody's Garden
An Illustrated Book for Pet Lovers of All Ages
www.xlibris.com/woodysgarden
(Not to be confused with this blog, Walks With Woody)
“ And, greatest gift of all,
Odin gave them souls that live and never die,
though the body itself has turned to dust.”
- ODIN’S FAMILY: MYTHS OF THE VIKINGS
Retold by Neil Philip
I wake up hearing panting. The excited, Spring fever kind of dog panting :Woody running full force around trees in our backyard in Michigan, years ago when he could do that. No matter how cold it was outside, he’d run circles on the grassy patches in between the snow until, exhausted, he’d sit, and one of us would scoop him up, and bring him inside to rest and lap up some water.
This is just too hard. Thinking about him is just too painful.
So I started thinking TO him instead….
I closed my eyes as quickly as they opened this morning in bed, and tried to clear my mind. Slowly, I pictured him, content, in the lap of Peace….
Me: I miss you.
I imagine he would cock his head to one side, trying to understand.
He is suddenly a beautiful man angel, like a Nordic god.
He: But I never left. And you still haven’t left me. We’re still together.
Me: True. You are in my thoughts, always. I guess what I mean is, I miss your little body.
I picture him shrugging and the thought comes quietly to me, as if he said it directly to my mind.
He: That body caused me a great deal of pain for a very long time. I’m glad to be free of it. I couldn’t run for a very long time.
And suddenly I realize what he is saying is true. His arthritis left him unable to run in years.
He looks at me and without words spoken, and I know: he hung on for a very long time, longer than he might have willingly. Maybe he would have “gone” after his first syncopatic episode – a surprise, too soon, to be sure. In his unconsciousness then, perhaps, he heard the desperation in my voice, felt my wildly trembling hands, and he knew he couldn’t leave me like that, so he pawed his way back to us. Away from the freedom from pain and those grassy fields of Heaven that he finally could run through again. Through another heart attack and several mini-strokes, he stayed with the old ticker as long as he could.
I don’t know if this is true. But…
I also don’t know that it is not.
*
I miss the physical likeness of Woody. I miss his smell (wheat toast) and the feel of his fur (boney angora). I miss the way his head popped up when I’d pass him in his little dog bed; I miss the way he would hold a wedge of rawhide and chew it with gusto; the way he’d smack when he would eat Pupperoni treats.
But if I believed in Spirit, had an ounce (or 3.3 pounds) of faith, I’d know, indeed, that he is in a “better place.” Without the burden of a sick body, he can run again, breathe again, and finally, finally be free.
Thinking of Woody always brings me full-face with those last few frail days, with all the guilt of having him put to sleep, but at the same time knowing that I would never expect David to let me suffer any longer than Woody did. I just don’t know.
*
Me: When are you coming Home?
He: I am Home.
Me: But – I don’t –
He: I’m already with you.
Me: Please. I miss you.
He: Check more. Inside. Around you. I never left.
Me: How can I be sure?
He: You don’t have to be.
Just know.
* *
On my morning walk this morning I heard a rustle of leaves and was rather pleasantly startled to look over and see a Mini Pinscher puppy poised and staring at me, head cocked mischievously to the right.
Oh, God, this is a busy street, I am thinking. “Where did you come from?” I ask him. He darted back, through a hole in the fence.
I walked on.
Rustle of grass. Mini pin, back again.
“C’mon. You can’t play on this busy street, Sweetie. You’ll get squished.”
I consider carrying him to a side street, where I can knock on a few doors, find his real home.
As if reading my mind, he leaps, fakes me out, and darts back into the hole again.
I walked on.
I keep looking back for him, again and again, just in case. But he’s gone.
He must know where his Home is, even though I don’t.
*
His eyes are half closed and he is half-turned, this stunning white-blonde man. The contentment on his face is something I have never known, and I feel guilty disturbing him from it, but –
He turns to me. Tears are streaming down my face but the grapefruit that’s been blocking my throat for the past two weeks has shrunk to the size of an apricot. He looks so lovely; he smiles the kindest smile I have ever seen in my entire life, with sparkling blue eyes the color of the South Florida sky.
Me: I still look for you when I get home and… it’s like being stabbed.
He: Mmm. Yes.
He hugs me with strong, smooth arms enveloped by cool, white sheet sleeves and I cry into them and worry about the mascara stains and I tell him, and he laughs a little and hugs me tighter – big, white, safe arms.
I cry and cry and laugh a little because suddenly I think of him as a puppy, biting my grandmother with tiny teeth and a tiny growl to match, and she giggled.
Me: I spoke to Nannie yesterday and she told me she had a dream about you. She said Jesus was sitting in a chair and He called to you and patted his lap, and you sprung right up, all white and fluffy. But your hair was curlier. Does Heaven curl your hair?
He: (smiling) Only the angels’.
Me: Really?
He shrugs.
Me: Anyway, even though her memory fails her a lot, she remembered that you had been born with a gimp front leg. But in her dream your leg was perfect and you were wagging a lot.
He: Yes. My legs are strong as trees now.
Me: I miss you.
He: I am here. I am here.
He hugs me tighter and…
… I wake up.
*
On my walking path this morning, a man I had never seen before smiled and said, “Hello,” and startled me out of my thoughts of Woody. I looked up to the “Hello” and it was the face of the man-angel in my dream. Except his hair was white, not golden blonde, and he wore a yarmulke.
I ring my sister Jen the minute I get home.
“Woody is a Rabbi living in Delray Beach!”
I tell her about my dream and the man I saw on my walk.
“Uh-huh,” she says, carefully.
“Really! What are the chances of seeing the same man the next day?“
“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” she asks.
Bitch. Don’t pop my bubble.
“It was the eyes. The eyes were the same. Sky blue. They twinkled.”
“’kaaay,” she said.
*
2B3FJC23QWUX
XFGNRKKX9U23
An Illustrated Book for Pet Lovers of All Ages
www.xlibris.com/woodysgarden
(Not to be confused with this blog, Walks With Woody)
“ And, greatest gift of all,
Odin gave them souls that live and never die,
though the body itself has turned to dust.”
- ODIN’S FAMILY: MYTHS OF THE VIKINGS
Retold by Neil Philip
I wake up hearing panting. The excited, Spring fever kind of dog panting :Woody running full force around trees in our backyard in Michigan, years ago when he could do that. No matter how cold it was outside, he’d run circles on the grassy patches in between the snow until, exhausted, he’d sit, and one of us would scoop him up, and bring him inside to rest and lap up some water.
This is just too hard. Thinking about him is just too painful.
So I started thinking TO him instead….
I closed my eyes as quickly as they opened this morning in bed, and tried to clear my mind. Slowly, I pictured him, content, in the lap of Peace….
Me: I miss you.
I imagine he would cock his head to one side, trying to understand.
He is suddenly a beautiful man angel, like a Nordic god.
He: But I never left. And you still haven’t left me. We’re still together.
Me: True. You are in my thoughts, always. I guess what I mean is, I miss your little body.
I picture him shrugging and the thought comes quietly to me, as if he said it directly to my mind.
He: That body caused me a great deal of pain for a very long time. I’m glad to be free of it. I couldn’t run for a very long time.
And suddenly I realize what he is saying is true. His arthritis left him unable to run in years.
He looks at me and without words spoken, and I know: he hung on for a very long time, longer than he might have willingly. Maybe he would have “gone” after his first syncopatic episode – a surprise, too soon, to be sure. In his unconsciousness then, perhaps, he heard the desperation in my voice, felt my wildly trembling hands, and he knew he couldn’t leave me like that, so he pawed his way back to us. Away from the freedom from pain and those grassy fields of Heaven that he finally could run through again. Through another heart attack and several mini-strokes, he stayed with the old ticker as long as he could.
I don’t know if this is true. But…
I also don’t know that it is not.
*
I miss the physical likeness of Woody. I miss his smell (wheat toast) and the feel of his fur (boney angora). I miss the way his head popped up when I’d pass him in his little dog bed; I miss the way he would hold a wedge of rawhide and chew it with gusto; the way he’d smack when he would eat Pupperoni treats.
But if I believed in Spirit, had an ounce (or 3.3 pounds) of faith, I’d know, indeed, that he is in a “better place.” Without the burden of a sick body, he can run again, breathe again, and finally, finally be free.
Thinking of Woody always brings me full-face with those last few frail days, with all the guilt of having him put to sleep, but at the same time knowing that I would never expect David to let me suffer any longer than Woody did. I just don’t know.
*
Me: When are you coming Home?
He: I am Home.
Me: But – I don’t –
He: I’m already with you.
Me: Please. I miss you.
He: Check more. Inside. Around you. I never left.
Me: How can I be sure?
He: You don’t have to be.
Just know.
* *
On my morning walk this morning I heard a rustle of leaves and was rather pleasantly startled to look over and see a Mini Pinscher puppy poised and staring at me, head cocked mischievously to the right.
Oh, God, this is a busy street, I am thinking. “Where did you come from?” I ask him. He darted back, through a hole in the fence.
I walked on.
Rustle of grass. Mini pin, back again.
“C’mon. You can’t play on this busy street, Sweetie. You’ll get squished.”
I consider carrying him to a side street, where I can knock on a few doors, find his real home.
As if reading my mind, he leaps, fakes me out, and darts back into the hole again.
I walked on.
I keep looking back for him, again and again, just in case. But he’s gone.
He must know where his Home is, even though I don’t.
*
His eyes are half closed and he is half-turned, this stunning white-blonde man. The contentment on his face is something I have never known, and I feel guilty disturbing him from it, but –
He turns to me. Tears are streaming down my face but the grapefruit that’s been blocking my throat for the past two weeks has shrunk to the size of an apricot. He looks so lovely; he smiles the kindest smile I have ever seen in my entire life, with sparkling blue eyes the color of the South Florida sky.
Me: I still look for you when I get home and… it’s like being stabbed.
He: Mmm. Yes.
He hugs me with strong, smooth arms enveloped by cool, white sheet sleeves and I cry into them and worry about the mascara stains and I tell him, and he laughs a little and hugs me tighter – big, white, safe arms.
I cry and cry and laugh a little because suddenly I think of him as a puppy, biting my grandmother with tiny teeth and a tiny growl to match, and she giggled.
Me: I spoke to Nannie yesterday and she told me she had a dream about you. She said Jesus was sitting in a chair and He called to you and patted his lap, and you sprung right up, all white and fluffy. But your hair was curlier. Does Heaven curl your hair?
He: (smiling) Only the angels’.
Me: Really?
He shrugs.
Me: Anyway, even though her memory fails her a lot, she remembered that you had been born with a gimp front leg. But in her dream your leg was perfect and you were wagging a lot.
He: Yes. My legs are strong as trees now.
Me: I miss you.
He: I am here. I am here.
He hugs me tighter and…
… I wake up.
*
On my walking path this morning, a man I had never seen before smiled and said, “Hello,” and startled me out of my thoughts of Woody. I looked up to the “Hello” and it was the face of the man-angel in my dream. Except his hair was white, not golden blonde, and he wore a yarmulke.
I ring my sister Jen the minute I get home.
“Woody is a Rabbi living in Delray Beach!”
I tell her about my dream and the man I saw on my walk.
“Uh-huh,” she says, carefully.
“Really! What are the chances of seeing the same man the next day?“
“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” she asks.
Bitch. Don’t pop my bubble.
“It was the eyes. The eyes were the same. Sky blue. They twinkled.”
“’kaaay,” she said.
*
2B3FJC23QWUX
XFGNRKKX9U23
