I’m so tired, it’s hard to think.

But I saw this at PostSecret this morning, and was just so comforted.

I’m not a religious person, and since 2006, I’m not even sure you can call me a spiritual person. But who knows? Perhaps even a cynical doubter like me is in line for a “reward.”

Doodle, I will see you there.

I’ve been walking dogs for almost three years now, and I’ve had around twenty-five regular clients; dogs that I see every day. If you have any sort of human feeling at all, you can’t help but develop a relationship with someone you see five days a week, especially someone who is just as thrilled to see you Monday as he was Friday. How often does that happen in an office? Even the really difficult (i.e. utterly untrained) ones *coughbeaglescough* have grown on me, and I find these days that I have a genuine fondness for every single dog I walk.

And that can make saying goodbye a hard thing, indeed.

Since starting this adventure, I have had many partings with my dog pals. I’ve asked to have dogs removed from my roster due to behavior (dog’s or owners’) or driving distance. It’s part of the job, and a necessary adjustment. Some simply stop needing walks. and some have moved away. I’ve scratched their ears one more time, bought them one last chew toy, and said my goodbyes. There’s always a new pup who needs me, and I move on to a new day and a new leash. Some, I get to see again periodically, like Shorty* and Doodle, who both grew out of a puppyish need for daily walks but still need occasional supplemental or vacation care. Doodle is a particular favorite of mine, and I’m always so happy to see him again.

But in the last four months, I’ve experienced the loss of a pup through death for the first time. First was Petal, a beautiful four year-old greyhound who died quite suddenly one evening. Her loss was shocking for her owner, and I tried to offer support and a comfort where I could. It was a difficult experience and a sad time.

I lost another pup yesterday, and I’m having a bit more trouble with this one. Luke has been ill for a time, and I’ve watched him grow thinner and weaker. His owners had one test after another run until a diagnosis was reached just two weeks ago. I think we all knew it would not be long before he would leave.

Friday he had a bit more pep than he had in some time, and we managed a short walk down the block. Still, I felt something in the air; something was shifting in him. For the last couple of weeks, he had spent most of his time on his bed, but that day he remained standing after our walk, keeping close to my hip while I got him a treat, wrote my daily note and put away his leash and coat. I kept telling him he could lie down and rest, but he stuck stubbornly at my side. When I headed for the door, he followed me to it, something he had not done in weeks.

“You wanna go back out, buddy?” I offered him the open door and picked up his leash, but he simply looked at me with a level gaze I instantly recognized. It was a look I’d seen in Kokoro’s eyes. And I knew he was saying goodbye. I don’t fancy myself some sort of dog whispering pet psychic, but in that moment Luke communicated something to me as clearly as if he said it in words: This is goodbye. I’ll be okay now. Thanks a lot for everything, pal.

And that was the last time I saw him.

I will miss you a whole bunch, Lukey.

*some dog names changed

9:30am, I dressed in my requisite fifteen layers and headed out to clean a weekend worth of snow from my car. The small lane between my house and parking area, and the lot itself were thickly covered with snow, which, in turn, covered a nice solid layer of ice. Slip sliding away, baby.

I started the car, then brushed and scraped it off. Climbing in, I put it in reverse and – nothing. Just that dreaded vsssssssssssssh vsssssssssssssh sound of tires going nowhere fast.

Jump ahead three hours, and I’m on my knees with a spade, rock salt, and landscaping mulch trying in vain to dig out the tires and give them some traction. I was covered with snow, my jeans soaked through at the knees and ankles, and mentally running calculations on just how late I was for work. To wit: how many dogs had peed how many times in their houses, multiplied by the number who would have pooped as well, divided by those who would eat the poop, thus saving me the trouble of cleaning it up when I finally got there.

In the end, the car remained in its icy lock down, and flurry of phone calls solved all but the most immediate dog problems. I took a hot shower and ate a bowl of ramen. With little pig faces in it. Sometimes that’s all you can do.

*-D.W.W., four years old

The next dog in my life would persist until both she and I were in our late teens, and both she and I found ourselves floundering into new and dangerous phases of our lives – she into elderly dog-hood, I into intensely insecure college dropout. Our parting was deeply sad and would leave a hole in my heart that I would later unsuccessfully try to fill with three cats of my own and, ultimately, ten of other people’s dogs.

We found Snoopy at a Taco Bell. In version of the story told over the years by various members of the family – some who weren’t even there – Snoop was found in the parking lot, but this is simply untrue. While we may have first spotted her small black and white wiggly little self running through the parking lot, we first took notice of her in the Taco Bell itself. She was a very smart little dog, and seeing her chance, she ran in the door when it was held open just long enough. And suddenly no one in that steamy faux-Mexican eatery could ignore her. Snoopy, who was not yet christened with her most original moniker, saw that this was her moment, her chance to convince one of these lucky diners that she was the Best Little Dog in the World (she was), and that despite having a multitude of tasty menu choices before them, the best decision they could make that evening was to take her home. I know you think I’m exaggerating in regards to Snoopy’s conscious effort in this, but I am not.

Once realizing that she had the attention of the entire crowd in that restaurant, Snoop became a one-dog circus, performing and careening and making herself adorable. She knew exactly what she was doing. She raced around, running laps from one side of the place to the other. She barked and crouched at patrons’ feet. She even jumped straight into the arms of one unsuspecting woman, who, having no good sense, dropped her back to the floor. I don’t remember who it was in my group who first said it, but there seemed to be a very quick consensus that this dog must come home with us. And so she did – but not my house, much to my deep disappointment. The Best Little Dog in the World rode away in the back of my Aunt Pam’s station wagon, dining on her very own taco. Aunt Pam named her Fanny, and loved her, but in one of those mysterious adult negotiations that kids are never quite privy to, Fanny was one day offered to us.

We took her. Fast. Our family of five (Mom, Dad, Sister, Me and a cat named Toby) was now six. As we watched our newest member explore our small house, sticking her nose in every nook and cranny she could find, Dad said, “she likes to snoop into things. Let’s call her Snoopy.” Though my own suggestion, “Cheerio” (what a good little consumer I was), had been summarily vetoed, I happily agreed.

Snoopy was home.

Our typical visit goes like this:

Lady: [lunging, but full of fear] barkbarkbarkBARKbarkbarkbarkBARKgrrrrrrwl! (trans. please don’t kill me)
Me: [giving her a hand to sniff] Hi Lady Bug! Hey there posey! You know me. Wanna go for your WALK?
Lady: [licks my hand]
Me: good GIRL!
Lady: [looks up at me, a little less scared now]
Me: let’s get your stuff. You want the pink collar or the red one?
Lady: [endures silly question patiently, knows treat may be involved]
Me: pink it is!
Lady: [wags tail a little, knows treat may be involved]

Off we go, through her quiet neighborhood, to the huge soccer field of a nearby school. She loves it there and for a few moments her eyes will grow shiny with excitement as she romps and plays and, I hope, forgets whatever it was that’s made her so very scared of the world.

A pretty posey takes a moment’s rest on a walk in mid-July.

But the words and sentences and pictures they make will not come. They’re all stuck in a cloud of second-guesses and self-doubt and lack of motivation. The last one isn’t completely my fault – my assigned topic is methamphetamines, which, when you think about it, is really ironic. But it’s not interesting to me, and I’m staring to fear it. At least I can spell it now. That took a while.

Something has happened to me this summer. I’m all slow and fudgy. I feel like my mind, my words, are wading through a sea of muck, possibly made up of dog poop.

Don’t get me wrong: I like the dogs. A lot. But my brain is just…gone. No wait, it’s here. I think.

Anyone have some meth?