Late summer, the evening light shifts, almost incandescent. I love that the sun always lets us know where we are, on the planet and in life. I’m sitting in my backyard. String lights illuminate a graying wooden fence and red Adirondack chairs underneath the maple tree. On hot days, a squirrel lounges on the chair arm, flattening himself so completely in a shockingly unsquirrel like way, that if I notice, I’m compelled to check on him, make sure he’s OK. I approach, he scrambles. Last summer my dog would lay beside me, tolerating the heat even though she’s a husky. She’s 10 now and prefers air conditioning to any summer warmth, doesn’t splash in her plastic pink pool anymore and sleeps a lot.
Funny thing, having a 10-year-old dog feels like a big accomplishment. When I was a child, our dog got cancer at age 7. Our first husky was diagnosed with kidney failure at 4. Then we got a rescue that lasted a month. He was fine, just not a good fit for our family. I’m not expecting any sympathy, those are just facts. The reality we don’t know how long these family members we call pets will live. But it’s a lot shorter than us and less than we’d like. We hope to have some control and maybe we do, with walks, good food, vet checkups. But then variables factor in, a backyard gate left open by accident, an unexpected illness.
So, I celebrate 10. But I know what’s coming and there is no preparing. Yet that’s exactly what I try to do. I scan available dogs on my phone. Try to convince my husband we need another one, thinking it will somehow ease the pain when the time comes. I tell him my great idea. A rescue I follow in Fairbanks has dogs I love. A big German Shepard, husky, Malamute mixes. Hardy, outdoor types. Long walkers. I suggest a bucket list trip to Alaska with a stop in Fairbanks. You know, two birds, one stone. My husband is on to me.
“Not likely,” is his response.
“What about a Hollywood husky?” I reply.
A “two birds” trip to visit our kid. No again.
Drinking morning coffee we discuss different breeds. Me, remember the cute chihuahua that lived one block over? Him, no, no I don’t. He likes the Bernese and Swissies.
I feel guilty talking about other dogs in front of our dog. Weird, I know. Like she understands us, like we’re cheating on her somehow.
So instead, these days I stay by her as much as I can. It’s late summer and I hope we have at least five or six more.
— Lisa Seplak of Hinsdale is a former community columnist. Readers can email her at [email protected].
