Ode To Legs

 Greetings all, it’s me here, up at 2:00 a.m., probably awoken by a nightmare but I don’t recall. Maybe Legs came to me in my sleep and awoke me, who knows. I know what’s required, took some more Simply Sleep, so I’m waiting for that to kick in, which it should in due course. While waiting, I wanted to reflect on my dear, departed Sir Little Legs, the most legendary Basset you could ever hope to meet. Descended from stud Special Forces, who won the Hound group at Westminster. Only male in that litter of females I saw when I went with Shirl to Athens to pick our pups out. So loud that he drove at least three people out from surrounding homes to our property. Anxious, drooly, yet ever so lovable, Legs was ours, and we loved him so much.

Thinking about how he was struggling in the end, I was struck yesterday afternoon with such profound grief, and doubt as to whether we were good parents for Legs…mom assured me that we were, we spoiled him, let him have the run of this place, walked him, tried to train him and socialize him from the get-go, yet he always was nervous around other dogs (never people). I’m pretty sure this is because his litter was removed from their mother early—maybe that’s why he was only $300 (or was it $350?). Sometimes I would get so embarrassed by his barking, other times I felt protected by it. I thought about getting him a bark collar, but that felt so cruel so I didn’t end up purchasing one. Oh, was I a bad parent, or maybe just a bad neighbor? Is everyone around us silently celebrating Legs’ demise? Will sweet Basset Lily pick up where Legs left off? Will Legs be reincarnated into another Basset we might adopt?

Dearest Legs, I miss you terribly. I cannot look at your chair without feeling such incredible pain. I’m going to have Michael put it out by the trash (when he is ready). I’m not throwing you in the trash, Legs, I just know your beloved piece belongs with all of my art works that are waiting for it at the dump. I’ll be listening for you today, Legs, in the voices of birds out in the trees in our yard. I know you are here with me, and I know you’re not suffering anymore. Perhaps you can follow me down to Athens when I drive down there with Arlene this Spring. I’ll bring your clay paw print with me, tucked in my purse so I have you close. Edwin the house cleaner will soon be here to wash you away from the floors, but it will be cathartic for us all. I may never clean your blanket again, or maybe down the line I will cut the blanket up into pieces for a quilted piece of art. My heart is broken, dear Legs. I miss you so.