The Douglas
Dogwood
non-fiction memoir
by Gregory E. Larson
Douglas, our
fourteen-year-old Cairn terrier, was ill and uncomfortable. He had slept most
of the day, but once I illuminated the Christmas lights, he appeared from the
corner. Poor guy. He was weak, but I sensed he was glad to be in the warm,
inviting space. Over the next hour, he found no less than five different places
to curl up for a nap, including a spot directly underneath the lighted tree
which was void of ornaments and presents. In his restlessness, he stopped and
laid his head at my feet. It was unusual for him to seek out my attention. I
stroked his head just to let him know I cared.
In the dark
before dawn, Douglas had a seizure and my wife, Gretta, and I rushed him to the
animal hospital. The staff did their best, but he couldn’t be resuscitated. He
had reached life’s end. We signed papers, and with tears in our eyes, drove
home to a cold, dark house, which matched our mood.
The loss for
Gretta, the true master for Douglas, was greatest. She always made sure he had
the right diet, and she kept schedules of his medications. Her attention and
care helped the dog stay fit and happy. I remembered many mornings when I’d
hear Gretta cheerfully chatting to Douglas as she went about getting his food
and water, then coaxed him to be still for his numerous eye drops.
It helped
our mood to talk through the memories of him.
“Remember
the times you bounced the big red ball in the back yard, and he jumped to hit
it with the end of his nose? He’d push it and chase it all around the back
yard!”
“How many
times did he hunt for mice in the woodpile or trap chipmunks in the downspout and harass them until we dragged
him into the house? He really loved the back yard, especially when you were
cooking on the grill.”
Douglas on a mouse hunt |
We were
overwhelmed by kind notes and cards from those who knew Douglas. Lorraine, our
friend who cared for him when we traveled, came by to comfort us and reminisce.
She was our dog-whisperer because she
connected with Douglas at a level I couldn’t comprehend. She taught him
how to fetch a ball — something even Gretta couldn’t teach him. He was always
excited when we told him “your Lorraine
is coming.”
She brought
a poinsettia and a sympathy card, and we drank tea and coffee while sharing
anecdotes of happy times with Douglas. She gave us some money and said, “Buy a
plant in the spring in his memory.”
In March, as
the temperatures warmed, I struggled with what to plant. I wanted something
that was a befitting memory for our regal, happy dog — then it hit me: sweeten
the pot and buy a dogwood tree. The shady area in the back yard was a perfect
spot.
The nursery
was unloading the trees on a warm, sunny day and I selected a four-foot Cherokee Princess dogwood. In the late
afternoon, I prepared the hole in the backyard. Then Gretta and I took turns pouring
the ashes of Douglas’s remains before I lowered the small, burlap ball at a
spot where Douglas used to sit and watch the children play in the park beyond.
At that moment I could see the look in Gretta’s eyes that reflected the healing
of our loss and the memories of all that was good in Douglas.
As she
looked at the tree, she summed up her feelings. “This is a happy tree, and
Douglas was a happy dog.”
The tree
grew and flourished from the first day it was planted, adding two additional
feet in less than two months and rewarding us with nine, white blossoms.
We see the
Douglas Dogwood out the kitchen window every morning, as well as the increased,
spring activity at the bird feeders in the ash tree. Our excitement always
rises when the first goldfinch arrives at the finch feeder (which is another
Gretta project). She has taken it as her mission to be the benevolent provider
to all the neighborhood birds in need. Recently, a female goldfinch began to
show up each morning. It was another sign of glorious spring.
“Gosh, she’s
eating enough food for a small army!” I exclaimed. Then I realized she was
preparing for nesting time. “She’s gonna be a mama goldfinch. There’s no
possible way she is consuming all those calories for herself.” The brave little
bird showed up every morning, undeterred by the nasty group of blue jays and
grackles trying to shake and raid the seeds. She landed in a nearby
maple tree, then flitted onto closer limbs and swooped down to perch on the
feeder.
Yesterday,
in the cool of the early morning, a bright flash caught our eyes as the
brilliant-colored male goldfinch darted through the air to perch on the feeder.
Mama goldfinch was probably at home in her nest, warming and protecting the
eggs.
Beyond the
finch feeder, the Douglas Dogwood grows taller and leafier by the day. We
cheered one morning when a red cardinal landed in it for a brief moment, the
bird’s legs deftly clinging to an angled branch.
Hmm . . . if
we see a goldfinch land in the dogwood some morning . . . well, that will be a
happy moment for all of us: Gretta, Douglas and me.