Twelve years gone, and still a thunder-shaped hole in my heart.

Photo copyright Wings, 2021; all rights reserved.

Twelve years gone, and still a thunder-shaped hole in my heart.

What does thunder look like? Like that up there. That was his name — well, one of them, anyway. Here, everybody gets nicknames, multiples of them, and the four-leggeds and featherbutts are no exception. His real name was Animikiins, Little Thunder Being, but we called him everything from Thunder to Thumper to Little Dude to Big Man to Little Big Man and more.

He was pint-sized, but a whole personality in a tiny trembly package, and brave enough to back even Raven the bully off with a bark and stare.

He came to us by way of an accident in the village, hit by the bumper of passing SUV and crying in front of the place next to us. The young women there were trying to figure out what to do with him but couldn't take him themselves, and we couldn't get hold of any rescue folks that late in the day, so we did what we had to do and brought him home with us. A quick but thorough examination showed that it was only a graze and all the yelping was from fear, not from pain. But over the next few days, the neurological issues would present themselves, and while we could not get an appointment with the vet between that evening, a Wednesday, and the following Monday, the news would not be good. Distemper. Advanced.

Meanwhile, in the parts of six days that Little Big Man was with us, he wormed his way right into our hearts. He followed us everywhere, talking constantly, head tilted to one side and gazing up at us quizzically about everything. The head tilt and the occasional repetitive thumping of his hind feet were artifacts of the disease, but he seemed entirely unbothered by any of it, just glad to have found a pack to be part of, and to be loved.

And he was loved. I was the one who had to take him on Monday, the one who had to hear what we already knew on some level. The one who had to hold him in my arms on that cold table and watch as he curled into them, gazed up at me, smiled a sweet puppy smile as if to say he knew what was coming and understood and it was okay, and went to sleep before the vet ever showed up with the big needle. The one who soaked his fur with my tears.

I barely made it home with his little body wrapped in a blanket. I wept the whole way. Griffin took months to forgive me. And we buried him in the field to the southwest, not far from where the horses now lie.

I did as I promised long ago that I would always do for our four-legged family members. The time was 10:20 in the morning, and so I took him cedar and tobacco with a little sweetgrass in it and some water. I took the lighter, too, but only the most momentary tiny flame was possible, because just as I started out, the sky opened up, and what had been a steady rain became a torrential downpour. And as I heard myself apologizing to this sweet spirit for the lack of smoke, I realized that he was only living up to his name. Only maybe three months old during those six days, and already a powerful being.

We love you, Animikiins. We're grateful for those few days, and for your presence, in the rain and in our hearts.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2021; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.