My beautiful Geppetto.
Geppetto died a month ago. The bird watching from the porch was no longer fun for him. The ball, the food, the treats, he was not interested. He was also too weak to enjoy any walks. One by one, the cancer took away all his pleasures.
As the doctor euthanized him, I held his paw and kissed him and talked to him lovingly. And soon our anguish, mine and his, was gone. Suddenly he was free of all the pain that had been slowly creeping into his old body. That pain, now homeless, jumped right into me.
Geppetto’s life was cut too short, like the lives of all dogs. At least Martin and I were there for him beginning to end, to make sure his time here was the best possible. He had cancer and many other ailments, but he suffered no major losses or disappointments. He had so much fun and love and the best care.
People told me my life would be easier now, that I no longer tend to Geppetto’s needs day and night. But as a matter of fact it’s way harder. And everything feels very wrong, as if not washing his diapers everyday or having no one to hand feed are small omissions on my part.
Maybe it shouldn’t hurt so much. Martin believes Geppetto still lives, inside all of us who love him. Funny, because that’s what I wrote on a poem about my friend Ricardo, when he died. But unfortunately it’s still hard for me to not have Geppetto around.
Then the other night I had this extraordinary dream. I was in this big old house full of flowery wallpaper, chandeliers, dark wood and long curved stairways. When I reached the basement and opened a bathroom door, I found my boy.
As I cracked the door open, I saw the paws and the tail and the chest of that Berner I know so well. It was Geppetto but young — a year old, maybe. When I saw his face, the white strip along the nose was wider. His features were quite not the same. But it was Geppetto, lying on the bathroom floor in the same position he used to lie in his bed, looking at me, puzzled. He was trying to figure out how the heck he ended up in that new body inside a dated bathroom.
Struck by this blissful surprise, I approached him carefully to stroke his once again shiny fur. I talked to him and hugged him, welcoming him to wherever we were. As Geppetto was still overwhelmed with confusion and hadn’t yet figured out he could walk and run again, I picked him up. We were going home, I told him, even though I wasn’t sure where that was. Maybe upstairs. Who knows. Who cares.
Then I woke up. A dash of happiness whistling inside of me.
I’m sure soon after, Geppetto figured out he could play ball again, bark his head off in the car, chase chipmunks, swim the whole pond after his orange Frisbee. I’m sure he figured it all out because I was there to help him. We’ve been through way worse than that.
Now when I go to sleep I have this strange feeling. I’m eager to see what Geppetto and I have been up to. It’s exciting to feel I’m in some way reunited with him, even if I don’t remember it in the morning.
Last night we were visiting another planet. We glided over robots training kung fu and miles and miles of sand in a convertible flying saucer, Jetsons-style. Maybe tonight we’ll just go for a refreshing walk in the woods. No flashlights required. I don’t know much about that other place yet. But I do know it doesn’t matter how dark it’s in here. There, it’s always daylight.
