Light at the end…or a lady of inestimable beauty.
Last night, my husband and I went to meet a couple of German shepherds -
a dad and a poor mom about to burst. She gave birth to nine puppies this morning.
We intend to put down a deposit on a puppy, hoping that one will turn out to be a plush coat, like Louie. Talk about six degrees of separation. The mom is the spitting image of Louie’s mom, who I first met when she was in the same stage of her pregnancy with Louie’s litter - and come to find out this guy, this owner, bred Louie’s grandmother and sold her to the people who sold us Louie. Thus, Louie’s mother was his puppy’s daughter. Small world! Just like Louie, both these dogs possess an amazing temperament, intelligence and awareness. They each have a sweet and gentle disposition that belies their intimidating size and strength. I can’t wait to see the puppies - gotta wait three weeks - I hope there’s a plush coat among the nine because that’s what we really want - yes, I know, we can’t replace our perfect dog, but we still want that great coat. So I feel guilty and hopeful at the same time. My husband keeps reminding me that I can’t stay mired in this awful grief and besides, maybe Louie turned around and came right back into this litter! Think positive! I do believe in reincarnation.
To celebrate, or to remember, or both, here’s one of my favorite literary passages about love and loss. Makes me cry every single time I read it. Count your blessings, you’ll have to suffer through a longer one tomorrow!
‘Many times Blackthorne had looked over his shoulder expecting her there, but she was never there and never would be and this did not disturb him. She was with him forever, and he knew he would love her in the good times and in the tragic times, even in the winter of his life. She was always on the edge of his dreams. And now those dreams were good, very good, and intermixed with her were drawings and plans and the carving of the figurehead and sails and how to set the keel and how to build the ship and then, such joy, the final shape of The Lady under full sail, bellied by a sharp sou’wester, racing up the Channel, the bit between her teeth, halyards shrieking, spars stretched on a larboard tack and then, ‘All sails ho! Tops’ls, mainsails, royals, and top topgallants!’ easing out the ropes, giving her every inch, the cannonade of the sails reaching on the other tack and ‘Steady as she goes!’ every particle of canvas answering his cry, and then at long last, full-bodied, a lady of inestimable beauty turning hard aport near Beachy Head for London…’
