The Goodness of Spring

If my dog was a season, she would be the goodness of spring. Her golden coat is like amber reflecting the sun, she is always poised and perfect, but when the rain comes there is no stopping the mud. Her eyes are a ring of worn 24K gold that sparkle no matter the occasion.

On that walk, I held the leash in my hand with a closed fist; those types of walks required strength in the way I forcibly dug my heels into the ground and tried to squeeze my elbow as close to my body as possible so she didn’t drag me down the sidewalk like a ragdoll. When we started to round the crescent street the realisation set in. My stomach warmed and jumped with butterflies because I knew this was when she changed her pace. Instead of her regular strides with her hips swaying and tail fanning, she shortened her step until she did a tap dance and glanced back with tongue hanging out to make sure we were really going where she believed. I tell her over and over, yes, we are.

Once we reached the base of the field, she transformed into a puppy again, biting the leash out of my hand, unable to contain the anticipation of what freedom feels like - running. When I unclasp the hook from her collar, she is off the starting line. I hear her feet thumping and squishing in the soaked grass and her tail spinning in circles to slow her pace like adding drag to a car and her body slammed into the ground and she danced on her back to make muddy snow angels, her black nose pushing through clumps of mud, her tail never stopping, not for a moment.

When I brought out the ball, all other thoughts in her mind disappeared. At that moment, she only knew three things: ball, fetch, and squeaking the squeaker as loud as possible. Each time she returns with the ball in her mouth and tongue drooping out my heart explodes. The whites of her eyes disappear and her gold irises illuminate and her pupils expand and love radiates from inside her soul so powerfully it is enough to cause an earthquake and her eyebrows raise up and down as she pants and drool runs down her jowls. She drops the ball at my feet and immediately barks to let me know I am moving too slow for her liking, that if she doesn’t get the ball right now she will take her case to court and demand reparations.

I never expected that run to be the last. I never planned for a last. To me, to us, playing fetch was everything we had. It had to last forever. It breaks my heart seeing the sadness tip toe into her eyes when her shoulder doesn’t hold up like it’s supposed to. I see the memories flash behind her eyes because running is all she wants to do. She tries to hide the limp to convince me to let her run. Just a small run, she begs in her tap dances as we prepare for walks. A piece of her shatters when we walk past the path and I have to look at her in that sugar face and tell her she can’t. I can't lie to her, I can't let her be in pain. She understands, and I think that’s what hurts the most: knowing she knows.

Spring hurts the most. Not just the growing pains of new leaves budding on maturing trees, not just the pain of change, not just the potholes that jolt the suspension on a car. Spring is now just memories, and I promise her everyday we will fetch again.