Dogs and Seasons

A decade ago, when my then-husband and I were looking for a bigger house in our area, we continually perused a neighborhood about 10 minutes away, specifically one long street lined with 100-plus year old Victorians in various states of repair and disrepair divided by a dreamy esplanade full of maples and crab apple trees. It wasn’t fancy, but it surely had once been grand, and it was affordable because the city had been economically depressed after its once-prosperous paper mills shut down. To me, it was the most beautiful street anywhere within driving distance, and I wanted to live there.

As dog people, we had admired the number and variety of dogs in the area with their humans strolling them up and down the leafy sidewalks, thinking of the sweet walks we could have there. During one drive down a length of the street, we witnessed the clincher that this was the place we were destined to call home: a man and his tri-color corgi.

I know, I know — corgis are ubiquitous now, and we didn’t really need a sign, but it felt magical. Because back at our smaller house, our tri-color corgi Hank and his corgi/border collie sister Trixie were wondering where their parents were, not knowing we were out plotting a nicer place for them, maybe a place with great walking possibilities and the chance at a fenced-in back yard. Maybe even another corgi friend.

It didn’t take long after we moved into our old Queen Anne Victorian just one block from the esplanade to meet the man with the tri-color corgi called Lucius. He and his wife would walk their dog and we would walk ours, and everyone barked and smiled and waved across the esplanade. The dogs didn’t exactly make friends, but the humans did. And the pups got their fenced backyard, too. Life was good.

Three years passed and Hank got cancer, inoperable. We loved him up for six weeks before we said goodbye. He was our first dog and quite like a child, as we didn’t have human ones. It was brutally hard. Lucius’ dad noticed me walking Trixie by herself one day and made a face demonstrating he knew what happened before I had to say anything. I was grateful because even that acknowledgement brought on the tears. He stood on the sidewalk with me for a long time, with great understanding.

When we adopted Rhys, our neighbors came to celebrate with us by playing with him in the fenced-in yard, excited to cuddle an 11-week-old tri-color corgi. (They also have no kids, so this was kind of the next best thing to a baby shower.) It wasn’t long before Rhys was joining Trixie on the esplanade, and the ritual of waving to Lucius and his parents continued.

A couple of years ago, my then-husband and I divorced and he moved out, so it became just me walking the dogs, and less often, as they were splitting time with me and my ex. After seeing me out there a few times like that, Lucius’ dad also put together that change without my saying anything. Last year, Trixie died. Again, it was brutal. Again, my neighbors put it together, and again showed such sympathy. They were people who “got it.”

I simply wanted another dog, any dog, that got along with Rhys, but what did the universe throw in my path? Another tri-color corgi. One time, Lucius’ parents and I forced a little tri-color convention in the middle of the esplanade that we found terribly amusing, noticing how both alike and different the dogs were with their patterns and personalities. Lately, as I’ve waved to our friends on our outings, I’ve noticed how Lucius had gotten very white and started walking more and more slowly.

I’ve been enjoying the season’s burgundy and gold leaves in the esplanade, making it extra regal as I saunter. But just this week, I thought about how I haven’t seen my neighbors out in a while. Tonight, as the light waned, we walked passed their house and I had a feeling. Immediately, they came out on their porch and called, “Anne! Hang on!” I knew what had happened without anyone saying it.

The three of us sat on the chilly concrete sidewalk while they petted Gwynnie and Rhys as we remembered the sweet guy who had lived with them and walked with them and slept in their bed with them for 14 and a half years.

“It isn’t the same in the house,” she said, and I nodded.

“I haven’t been taking walks,” he said. “Things happen on the street and it takes me so long to notice now.” Again, I nodded.

“He would wake me up, and tell me it was lunch time, and then time for our after-work walk.”

“I know,” I said, nodding. “I’m so so sorry.”

“My mom has a shrine to Lucius. He was her grand-dog.”

“That’s adorable,” I said. “He was so loved. I’m so glad I got to know him and his wonderful parents.”

We got cold sitting there on the sidewalk after a while and, as we stood, I told them to text me anytime if they needed a corgi fix. They aren’t ready to get a new dog now; they might take advantage of their doglessness and do some traveling. And they offered to babysit anytime. It was sad and happy at the same time.

I thought about the gains and losses and changes, like the seasons, that the three of us have been through in ten years. How the shared love of silly dogs shaped like potatoes on stumps had made us friends, how our grief over losing them bonded us. I was glad they knew that I “get it,” what they are going through, that I could be fully present with them and their pain, help them feel seen and comforted the way they had for me.

I dispensed warm hugs to both of them and walked my kids back to our house, our friends admiring their ridiculous fluffy tri-color bodies mincing down the sidewalk through the autumn leaves.