There's nothing for it at this point, I have to acknowledge: my dog is dead and no longer walking. How I tense at this admission, how I long to avoid it, how I want to hold onto Mr. Pickle through this blog. I feel my fingers curling tight around its edges, clutching with all my might, reluctant to ease my grip lest the last vestige of my buddy evaporate like morning fog dissipates in sun.
At break of day tomorrow I plan to slip out to our old haunt by the Sandy River, a smattering of ashes in my pocket. Nicholai and I spent numerous hours on many days, in and out of months and seasons, over the better part of six years, seeking refuge on the abandoned roads and trails in this area. Together we hiked and ran, waded and swam, listened to eagles call, watched coyotes slip into brush, met each other's eyes, shared a love of walking on the wild side.
I will largely retire this walking route now that my main man is not by my side. The girls are happy to romp at nearer spots or hike with me at Forest Park or on Gorge trails, and I long to do so. In addition, the once forgotten area Nicholai and I found to roam has recently been "improved" with asphalt biking trails and no-dogs-allowed wetlands areas. Funny, how timing works.
But I must return there at least once more with a bit of Nicholai in hand. And once there, I must open my clasping fingers and let his ashes fly. He was a wild thing and I will feel some peace knowing I have let a bit of him float on the breeze and come to rest in some of his, and my, most favorite spots.
Few posts on Dead Dog Walking remain. Nicholai is now a Dead Dog – shimmering particles of stardust dancing in a midnight sky. Though my heart still aches at his absence, I must let him go.
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