The Persistence of Memory
The Old Girl awoke, and remembered. Only for the most fleeting of moments and then He slipped away as waking shredded the fog of a perfectly good nap. Her nose led the way before her eyes even fluttered open, seeking Him amidst the mélange of smells that His place was now layered with. Too many, too old, too blended, too much reek of newness and vacuum powders. She opened her eyes upon His place across the couch, where That Other Dog was forbidden to sit. And yet it had, as recently as last night, her exquisitely sensitive nose so informed. (She was still teaching it manners.)
She yawned, taking her luxurious time about it, the wisp of almost-memory fading already. Why had she woken? Nothing inside was too full or too empty, aside from an ache she had no name for. She could not tell time but the light told her it was too soon for the Big Ones to return.
Driven by a curiosity nearly indistinguishable from boredom, the Old Girl stretched her front legs out and over the couch cushion until gravity lowered her paws to the carpet. Stiff-legged, she walked her body forward, taking care to stretch and pop every vertebra. No more bounding for her– she could barely remember when or why she had stopped. Leave all the mad bouncing around to That Other Dog. This was what she did now and it felt right and easier on her joints. Her hind paws were planted daintily and with a last glance at the far end of the couch, she set off to inspect her domain.
The patio door was the first stop, drawn by the so-close-so-far promise of the ever-changing scents that whispered through the cracks in the fence and swirled and mixed in the small yard. Always familiar, always different. She lost herself for a moment trying to catch the merest wisp of something intriguing finding its way through a draft… and suddenly That Other Dog had her. How could she not have heard its absurdly large pads thudding down the hall? If the Old Girl could sigh, she would have. She was in no danger; the Big Ones had seen to that before bringing it into their pack. But still it pumped frantically at her hindquarters pursuing a vaguely understood and never to be consummated objective– until her small supply of patience ran out. She promptly sat down. That Other Dog was startled into confusion –it was cute but not too bright– and stepped over and around her, sniffing for some means to continue, or start a game, or a wrestle, and failing utterly. Eventually it rolled in front of her and waved a tentative paw her direction, huge brown eyes full of hope, tail flicking. She responded by batting it firmly on the nose –but not too hard. She was generally forgiving of the fact it was still basically a puppy in an oversize frame. Hint taken, it wandered away to some new mischief. She watched him retreat. It was getting harder to stay mad at him for long.
Alone and left in peace, the Old Girl was tempted to stay awhile and enjoy the rectangle of sunbeam. But hers was a curious breed and she wanted to know what spoiled her late-afternoon-but-not-quite-dinner nap, with its tantalizing remnant of dream.
For a time she followed familiar scent trails, some new some old. She paused by the entrance to the kitchen where a forgotten treat had fallen just out of reach by the fridge. It was quite stale and soon it would no longer qualify as food, even by her flexible standards. She moved on. Unseen from above the countertops cascaded many wonderful smells, tempting enough to make her mouth water. Tempting, but forbidden. Next was the garbage can –definitely forbidden. Maybe later.
The Old Girl turned the corner and saw the disaster. Oh, were they in for it when the Big Ones got home! Somehow, that clumsy Other Dog had not only left a mess of toys all over the kitchen (that happened most days) but it had somehow managed to knock the entire toy box onto the floor and emptied every last one of its contents. The sound of the fall must have been what woke her. She browsed the debris with her nose and eyes, confirming her belongings and renewing some old acquaintances in various states of repair.
There’s an odd sort of sorting that takes place in toy boxes. New and favored toys tend to stay near the top, to be taken out, loved, and then replaced back on top again. Older, less favored toys, over time did exactly the opposite, moving lower and lower in the toy hierarchy. Down, down, into the dusty darkness, disregarded and, ultimately, forgotten. When such a toy hit absolute bottom, it might remain nearly unchanged for an indefinite time. It will not see sunlight, so never fade. It won’t be played with, so accrue no wear and tear. Insulated by other toys, shadows, and lost memories, it might remain in a sort of suspended animation exactly as it was when it first descended.
But now, today, they were all once again equals on the kitchen tiles. And today, she found a truly great and forgotten treasure. So great a treasure, in fact, that she didn’t even claim it as her own, as all the others were hers by ancient right. For she had found His toy.
Her nose found it before her eyes. It wasn’t much to look at anyway. It was plain even when new, being one of those more-or-less monkey-shaped puppets made from a brand of socks no one wears. It had been His first toy and well-loved already when she was first invited into the pack.
She nosed it, tentatively. As the preserved scent reached inside her, memories half-locked away flowed out. They were memories of Him.
The first was of Him and the toy and how she wanted it just because He had it. And He let her and then promptly took it back. First lesson: Mine is mine. But we can share. She had flashes of how that became Their game: I take, you take back. Repeat.
She remembered a friendly tug of war over the sock monkey that escalated when, to her shock, it came apart between them. He was confused; she felt she had done a Bad Thing. After repairs, it was shared perhaps a bit less.
But there were other memories too. Running– oh, the running! She was lighter and faster but He was stronger and could leap like He had wings. Lying in the cool shade panting afterwards, He smelled sweaty… but better somehow.
Pack walks. The park. Eating together. Everyone piled on everyone else to sleep on cold nights. Just curled up on their respective ends of the couch, doing absolutely nothing, together.
Then there were deeper memories, more reluctant to come up from the shadows.
The early spring they both were so sick and stank all the time. A fight with a neighbor dog that drew blood. Then, the long wasting illness that took His magnificent legs. And then… He just wasn’t there and no matter where she looked or how long she waited, she couldn’t find him. The nameless ache.
She returned to herself, startled to find His toy in her mouth and chewing it wetly. It dropped from her mouth and in a second had it back again. The Old Girl would keep His toy and protect it. She must! She looked around the room. Her crate was the one place where any other dog would be met with tooth and claw. She trotted over to it, disregarding the field of lesser treasure.
The Old Girl carefully dropped the ratty toy in a back corner of her crate. She turned around on the blanket, then twice more, before settling into a furry donut. It was no accident that her nose ended its orbit closest to His toy. She took a deep breath and once more she was flooded with bits of memory of Him, of Them. She breathed out slowly as if reluctant to let those tiny bits go.
She had no word for grief. But she knew the empty place inside her was a little smaller. And for that small grace she was content. She closed her eyes.
Michael Reeseman
August 2016