the day Rudy died

There are children, people taking wedding photos, having beautiful days in this beautiful fall weather. There is mist rising off of St. Anthony falls and I am looking across the wide Mississippi river, afternoon sun reflecting on it. Sooner or later I may need to come down from this shock feeling plane of sadness and ecstatic sorrow to the real sad but functioning place of moving on with Rudy buried under the pepper tree in my parents backyard. The other dogs are buried underneath an old Christmas tree that is 40 feet tall now, but the ground was too hard there to dig a hole deep enough for Rudy. So they went over to the pepper tree in the corner, where Grace used to climb up into the branches to leap into the neighbors yard, and began to dig there. They all cried as they tried to put him in the ground and never see him again. They said they had a hard time stopping touching him, that they kept petting his fur, and even though his body was hard, his ears were still as soft and floppy as they had been his whole life. My brother, who is not a man of many words, told me he sat there on the burm with a shovel on his knee and a tea cup in hand, looking at the hole they had been digging, and thought, “you know, there is nothing strange about this, nothing wrong with this. I am sitting here, drinking my tea, crying and this is how it’s supposed to be.” So they put two dog biscuits by his head, covered him with some chicken wire so animals wouldn’t dig him up, and finally they put dirt down over his soft red fur. I will never get to touch him again. I would like a hug, to break something glass that shatters loudly, a hot-tub, and a drink, in that order. But first…

It is raining yellow leaves and there is something the color of a sunset filling my gut and I may need to sleep or be numbed by the vibrations of loud drums because this feeling has been intense for so long. What I am doing here keeps feeling like the question and the answer seems to be, does it matter? Find your home in the hearts of others and don’t fight what has already passed. What words can I say to express such love? Does it ever get easier to bury what you love? I think, if you do it right, it doesn’t. I hope love lost always feels raw and fresh.n1233344_37318180_3434

 

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One thought on “the day Rudy died

  1. I was very hesitant to read this, being that Champion passed in June. After an abundant grieving period with enough tears to fill the Mississippi, I avoid thinking of him too deeply these days because the emotions come rushing back. His photo’s got a firm spot in my room and I speak to him often, but I’ve released him to be free and explore the universe. I know his presence is all consuming in the oneness. I’m amazed at the clarity your brother had at this time; I was torn from head to toe and broken as I forced my way into the solid Rocky Mountain earth with a pic axe and a couple of buddies preparing a place for Champ. Love is the beauty of life, and death the reminder to love that much harder the next time.

    Your ending was perfect..

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