Sunday, March 1, 2015

The Prodigal Dog



Last night, I took our two beagles Lexi and Mobi for a hike up on the mountain above our house. I've taken Mobi on these hikes for years and enjoy his company very, very much. He is the perfect companion: he wanders free and happy across those hills, yet, when I stop to rest, he comes close and lets me know that he is happy we're there together.

Lexi is entirely a different matter. When she's on the leash, she's pulling on it like the minotaur on a mission, and when we're up on the mountain and she's off leash, I have the dickens of a time catching her when we get back to the road. With Lexi in tow, I come back from those hikes quite the opposite of refreshed.

But I take her for one reason. Vicky loves that little dog, and has since the moment she brought Lexi home from the pound six months ago. And she wants that little dog to be healthy and happy.

So -- up the mountain we go.

Last night was a dark one. I love wandering free beneath the dark sky, off trail and without constraints, listening to the wind whistling through the grasses and the slight jingling of the dog's collars. We were quite far up on the mountain when I realized that I only heard one dog jingling. I figure I'd learned how to manage Lexi: sit and wait until she comes around, then wait patiently for a good deal longer until she comes close enough for me to snag her collar.

So Mobi and I waited. And waited. For much longer than we are accustomed. No Lexi. I whistled, and shouted, peering out over the mountain from whence we came, squinting to try to make out a tiny brown and white form skipping between the sagebrush. Nothing.

It was clear that even Mobi didn't know her whereabouts. Retrieving is not his strong suit, but even he made little forays out into the darkness as if trying to look for her.

I tried to put out of my mind the possibility that she was truly lost, wandering across the grasses, calling, whistling, but in truth, I was beside myself. How could I go home again with one beagle and one empty leash? How could I stand before Victoria and tell her that I'd lost that little dog? How could I break her heart like that, with all that she is trying so bravely to deal with?

But in the end, that's what we did, Mobi and I; we walked home, calling and whistling and straining to look. I had a tiny hope that Lexi maybe had preceded us, and would be waiting at home with a befuddled Vicky with many questions. As we started down the mountain though, I looked out over the valley with its hundreds and thousands of homes, and saw how very far away and insignificant our home was, and couldn't muster much hope that a little beagle could navigate the maze.

And sure enough, when we got home -- no Lexi.

Vicky has such grace. Even after the awful, terrible week of sickness and fatigue she's had, she took the news with equanimity. She started when I told her, and asked a few clarifying questions, then, without a trace of recrimination, she simply started making plans for how we would look for Lexi. We got in the truck, and began retracing our steps -- down the long road to the trailhead, stop and yell and whistle up the dark trail, then backtrack along to the dirt rugged pipeline road, driving slowly with the windows down and the cold streaming into the cab, calling and whistling until our voices were sore and mouths tired from whistling.

And no dog.

We found ourselves back at the house, sitting in the darkened living room with the front porch light on, watching out the front window, hoping beyond hope that our little dog hadn't been found by a coyote, and that she would have the intelligence and presence of mind to find her way back.

We sat and watched and talked quietly for an eternity. We talked about all those stories when pets made long journeys to find their masters. We wondered if The Incredible Journey had any basis in truth, but again, we found great comfort in the fact that my father's dog Putter came all the way from Logan Canyon to find his home again.

"But then again," Vicky said, "Maybe she won't make it back." And her lip trembled.

Then Vicky started from her seat. "Look!" She pointed out the window.

There, wandering from the street into the pool of light was a little brown and white dog. Our little prodigal dog. We threw the door open and there never was such a welcome.

Turns out -- they do come back.


We lost our daughter Genny when she was 14 years old. It wasn't really all at once, but friends and life choices slowly took her away from us, and for years we were beside ourselves, praying and hoping and thinking about how we could bring her back. She would dip back into our lives, like Forrest Gump's Jenny, but then she would be gone again, and the gnawing uncertainty would begin afresh.

What parent hasn't waited in that darkened living room, looking out the window, hoping their child will step into that pool of light?

Last week, I sat with my 31-year-old daughter Genny in her sacrament meeting, surrounded by her two boys, and watched the way she smiled and loved those children, and thought about the wonderful way she has been with Vicky, calling her and giving her thoughtful gifts, being there completely for her. Our prodigal daughter, now a beautiful, poised, accomplished woman.

Turns out -- they do come back.

1 comment:

  1. This was beautiful and filled me with great hope for the future. Thank you for writing it.

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