We buried our boy today.

Photo copyright Wings, 2016; all rights reserved.

A couple of days ago, as I was walking out to the studio, a mourning cloak danced past me on the breeze, headed eastward, and I felt something cold clutch at my heart. They are aptly named, these butterflies: They tend to appear when death is at the door, even if we don't know it yet.

I shook it off. Two of the horses had been in full laminitis flare for months; all three of the dogs had fought off a nasty reaction to something in the last couple of weeks. Griffin's CVS had just flared again, but that's by now an annual occurrence at this time of year, and there's little for it but time. He's always bounced back just fine, and there was no reason to think this would be any different.

It was different.

At five o'clock yesterday evening, with snow falling softly outside, our boy walked on, over the threshold and on along that western road to The Interstices and beyond, to the place where the Thunderbird flies, to a place where we cannot yet follow, and my heart is broken into too many pieces ever to be repaired.

I don't think I can make anyone understand. You have experienced this sort of relationship with another being, or you haven't, and if it's the latter, nothing I say will make the slightest bit of sense. I have never had such a one before, nor will I again; Griffin was entirely one of a kind, and there is no succeeding that.

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

We had no warning, no reason to think that this round would be any different from the many others. That photo of him in a show dog's stance? That was taken less than two months ago. You can't tell from the photo that he even had CVS — no head tilt, no crouch, nothing — nor that he had survived being hit by a truck on the first day of fall in 2009, a result of trying to herd the puppies off the road, and an incident that took his inner eyelid and the vision in his right eye, ripped his right hip entirely out of its socket, and left him with a massive concavity in the right side of his head. 

He healed himself, and in record time.

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

He was bonded to both of us like no other. I took that photo on the fifth of this month; it was one of his favorite spots, once we were all in for the evening. 

Wings often said that he had never seen a dog so bonded to a human as Griffin was to me, and he was right — Griffin chose me on that evening of March 1st, 2001, as I was walking down the shelter hall, having seen me before I could even see him. He was promised to another who decided, two days later, that she didn't want him, and so he came to me on March 4th, and he knew he was home the moment he laid eyes on me, riding home over a three-hour period of my getting lost in the maze of a new city in the snow, his body in the passenger's seat of my Jeep, facing me so that his paws could touch my right leg, sound asleep and happy. He has been with me longer than any other soul, more than fifteen years, and with Wings almost as long.

We called him our boy, but he was never our child, although for a couple with no children together, it took on a bit of the same sort of dependent relationship. But Griffin was an old soul, a spirit ancient and wise, one who rode with me through things indescribable, who took care of me and healed me when there was no human in my life to do so, who accompanied me in working to heal Wings, as well. He was more human than most humans, and more logical, analytical, and wise than all but perhaps one or two in existence, and I have too often wondered whether he carried the spirit of one of my ancestors, since he knew me so well. He adopted Wings as one of those for whom he was to care, and he did that job as well as he did every other.

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

There is so much of Griffin to tell, to remember, but I know that it matters to no one but Wings and me, and right now, it's too difficult to try to put it down. That photo above, of him blithely striding across the field, appears to be the last one I took of him, on the evening of April 7th, when we were all out for a walk. He knew the limits of his body, and was heading back to wait for us.

Heading westward.

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

There was no warning. He was weak yesterday from the CVS and attendant inability to eat; after three days with virtually no food, he'd begun to drop weight. I sat on the floor with him repeatedly as he rested on his dog bed and blankets, petting him, talking to him, letting him know how much we loved him. When I was away, he'd periodically lift his head, turn around, find me with his eyes, then lie back down, and I'd go to him. Eventually, Wings came in for the evening, and we watched over him from the couch. At one point, as I got up to do something else, Griffin arched his neck, and I knew what was coming; I ran to him and held him as his spirit fought for several more moments, then slipped away. I had noticed earlier, thanks to the weight loss, that I could feel a mass deep between his ribs just behind the right foreleg, one that had not been apparent before, and so now we know there was more at work.

It was too late and snowing too much to bury him them, so we took care of his body for the evening, covering him warmly and leaving a candle burning with him. We buried him this morning, and the man I love more than life itself showed me again why that is when he arranged Griffin's resting place as it is above. No one else would have thought to honor this spirit in that way, and while I know most people will regard it as self-indulgent madness, I can only say that they have obviously never known.

It is taking every effort I can muster to remember Griffin as he should be remembered:

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

Our beautiful boy, handsome and wise, resting contentedly in the grass. There is a reason we called him manitou, spirit. But after a decade and half and more, I no longer no how to be without this spirit present in my life; the world is emptier than I have ever known it. We will both have to learn.

We love you, my sweet baby Griffin dog, my sweet boy, my sweet Griffin manitou. I sent you on your journey with the means to find me when I travel that road myself. We will see you again.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2016; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.