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“Spencer, save those words. Remember those words,” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of the main doors, we stumbled upon the rocky gravel to the moonlit hayloft and climbed the bales until we reached the top.
“What about dinner?” I asked.
“I just want to be alone with you.”
Her words assaulted my senses. I removed my jacket and gently settled her on top.
I laid beside her, my arms on either side of her head and stared into her face.
“After prep school, a bunch of my mates and I backpacked around the world.”
“Where did you go?” she asked, unbuttoning my cuffs and rolling up the sleeves.
I leaned forward and my hair fell into my face. She ran her hands through the mass and pushed the strands back for me.
“Uh,” I said, shaking my head, “all over, but there’s one particular place that reminds me so much of you.”
“Where?” she murmured.
“Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela.”
“What’s there?” she murmured into my ear, bringing the side of my face to hers.
I spoke slowly, under the influence of her touch. “A, uh, a natural phenomena called Catatumbo Lightning.” She lightly bit my earlobe and my head fell forward a bit. “Cricket,” I mumbled.
o;My darling girl,” she told Cricket and hugged her tighter. When I came closer, her hand went to my shoulder. “Take him to the living room,” she instructed. I began to walk away, but before I could take more than one step, she hugged my neck. “I’m sorry for you too, boy. I know you loved him very much.”
I nodded, afraid to speak for fear I’d break down, and took Eugie to the main living room. I laid him on the plank flooring by the large windows and just sat beside him.
No one prepares you for the death of a pet. It’s not quite like losing a human loved one, obviously, but you cannot help but feel a tiny bit of despair. After all, they serve you so loyally. I think they genuinely love you, and they’re so protective of you. They do their jobs so instinctually and so exceptionally because that’s how God made them.
I remembered stories from my childhood, when my mom used to take Bridge and me to church. They were the stories of St. Francis. Through St. Francis, we were reminded just how these creatures of God served humans, and by serving His humans, they served and praised God. I always thought of animals as nothing more than soulless creatures before those stories, never once thinking that they too had a purpose. I had seen a statue of St. Francis in a courtyard once and the image was of him bending down and scratching a dog behind his ears and I thought, if a man so close to God gave respect to even the lowliest of God’s creatures, they must be worth loving.
Cricket came into the living room and sat beside me, taking my hand in hers.
“He was such a good boy,” she said simply.
“He was,” I agreed.
We sat, staring out the window, watching spring melt the leftover snow right before our eyes, coming to terms with the drastic turns our life had taken in the past few hours.
She squeezed my hand. “We’ll have to bury him,” she said softly.
“Of course.”
“There’s a little dogwood tree right at the bottom of our main homestead,” she began.
“I know it,” I told her, which made her smile.
“He liked to sleep there with me when we were both little.”
“That’s sweet, Cricket.”
She nodded with a gentle smile. “The ground will still be too cold to dig by hand.”
“I can get the digger.”
She looked at me and smiled again. “Thank you.”
