No Surface, Only Depth
Impossible boundaries define the space between us, until shared grief creates the smallest, most fragile overlap.
It was only a few seconds after the staff member at the rescue facility closed the gate to leave me alone with the feral dog before a deep, low growl greeted me that was more of a statement of fact than a cautionary warning, freezing me mid-step.
Originally published by the Moab Times-Independent in a 15-article series.
There was something about being in that enclosure that had me coming back every day, day after day. I felt as though I hadn’t taken a deep breath in the entire last year before having to say goodbye to my dog, Moxie, losing my best friend of 17 years.
I couldn’t muster socially polite conversations, let alone share my grief. All pets are special, but once in a while, one intertwines so deeply into your soul that the bond becomes part of your very fabric. I had just lost that, a chunk of my heart carved out and gone forever. While I sat with the feral dog, I could just be, with nothing being asked of, or from me. I could breathe.
During one of the rock-moving sessions, my eyes drifted off into the snow on the rim, bringing back memories of Moxie. She would pounce into the snow, diving down like a seal to pop up the other side with a mouse in her mouth. Running through the deep snow made her look like a dolphin bobbing in and out of the ocean. I especially missed returning home, stoking the wood-burning stove to warm ourselves as we ate, watching the flames dancing light on the cabin walls.
I was slapped back to the present moment by a soft, concerned dog’s whimper. I tried to focus through my tears, realizing that I had been quietly sobbing. The feral was looking at me with a distinct softness on her face, making her appear much younger, with what I can only describe as kindness in her eyes.
She seemed to understand this pain, and we held our first moment of real connection.