It's been a year already, but it seems like only yesterday.

Photo copyright Aji, 2020; all rights reserved.

It's been a year already, but it seems like only yesterday that we had to let Raven walk (or fly) where we can't follow.

That shot was on May 10th of last year, eleven days prior. For at least a month, we had been prepared for him to leave us at any minute, and yet, even then you're still never ready. All the moreso with a dog whose fierce protectiveness hid his atavistic fear of vets and more, born of a first year of abuse and abandonment, when you have to call the vet to come out and help his body do what it can't on its own. 

The one thing we promised him is that we wouldn't let him suffer.

Raven came to us in the latter half of 2008, starved beyond what one would think would be even base survival, set upon by the local vicious dogs, generally abused and left to die. He was terrified of everything, including the prospect of getting into a vehicle, so we could only feed him on the days we were at the gallery, and every morning, he would be lying faithfully in front of the door, waiting for us. It broke our hearts to think that during closures, he would be waiting for days and weeks on end.

So before the end-of-winter full closure, we loaded him (and me) up into the bed of the truck and I held him and his leash in a death grip in the cold February dusk, wind blasting us both, him looking for any chance to jump. But he had been my guardian, even escorting me to and from the restroom, for all those months, and I wouldn't let him go.

His fear made him aggressive with other dogs, and even at the end, he was still trying to guard his pack: two sets of stitches in the two months prior. That photo, though, shows him at his most relaxed, lying in the grass with a marrow bone, tongue happy and his entire self in the doggie equivalent of pure bliss. On the last day, held fast in my arms on the grass, it took all of a few seconds: 5:19 PM was the moment when his head, instead of falling rightward as expected, fell left against my chest and I felt his spirit go. The vet tech helped Wings carry all 120 pounds of him (50 of that the inoperable tumor that took him too soon) to the grave, and the vet himself tossed in a little soil.

At the moment he was laid to rest, a raven rose seemingly out of nowhere, cawing and cackling and flapping. It looked straight at me, circled, then zoomed westward, laughing as it went.

The ravens were always his guides; they named him, watched over him, and made him their own.

At the appointed time, I did as we always do, took him some water and some cedar and some tobacco at his resting place. His spirit's long gone, of course, flown westward a year ago this night. But I feel him here occasionally, my fierce brindle guardian with the sweet eyes.

We love you, Raven. You're always in our hearts.


All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2020; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.