If I had known the dark emotions caused by witnessing so many dogs crossing the Bridge, I might not have agreed to accept the position of judge for my district. Truthfully I was seduced by how good the robe looked on me. Since Hattie Mae sent me clothes, I have been a slave to fashion.
I was naive. I didn’t realize how affected I would be watching friends arrive in the immortal world and feel their parents’ pain that arrived in the newest angels’ wake.
I have more than 1,000 friends on the Doggyspace Social Network, and I have been there when most of the crossed over. One of the survivors ran out of heartbeats this week and joined us at the Bridge.
This week the newest angel to arrive was my old friend Boudica, faithful companion and child of Momma Eleanor. Together they played a deadly game against arthritis, hip dysplasia, spondylosis, and the normal aging process. Momma Eleanor and Boudica played every poorly dealt hand wisely, including acupuncture to eke out as many heartbeats as possible, but the cards turned against them this week. Boudica only wanted to lie down, not even moving for her favorite wet food. In Boudica's case, the fight to stay alive was ending, and the last losing card was played, sending the survivors into despair. At the same time, Boudica was granted his beautiful but unwanted reward.
One thing we have perfected at the Doggyspace, and the Blogger villages, is the welcoming celebration for new dogs. We make sure that the most challenging part of their life is met with friendship, love, and food, the three main things we dogs need to survive.
At the end of the celebration, I found Boudica sitting at Hobo’s Landing, looking at the lights from our mortal homes shining just out of our reach. I didn’t speak. As hard as we try, we angels can’t forestall the inevitable sorrow all angels are hit with after crossing over. I sat silently next to my friend. I knew not to speak. If Boudica wanted to she would do it in her own time.
She began to talk about when we, and so many friends, met and reminisced about those early days when everyone was friends on a site where dogs came first. We talked about the Furminators baseball team, how fun the practices were, and how we celebrated birthdays and marriages. We were young and strong, with our lives ahead of us. Where had it all gone?
The answer was here. I reached under a bush and gave Boudica her baseball glove. She smiled warmly. I told her there was a practice and the town square right now. She happily ran off to join the tea.
We’ll keep her busy until the pain of leaving stops hurting. It won’t be an eternity. It only seems that way.