Eight Years. Little Thunder.

Photo copyright Wings, 2017; all rights reserved.

Eight years ago this morning, I was in the vet's office with that little guy up there. 

This morning, I took cedar and tobacco and sweetgrass out to the place where we buried him on that same day.

His name was Animiikins, Little Thunder Being, but he answered to Big Guy, Little Dude, Little Big Man (yes, partly a play on the movie, and also an expression of who he was, a huge spirit in a tiny body), and a bunch of variations on all three. He was with us for parts of six days, having been injured in the old village just as we were leaving the gallery for the day. The girls who found him couldn't take him, which meant we were elected. The vehicle bump he had reportedly sustained was the least of his worries; it turned out that he had distemper, and the vet said that he could not be saved.

Griffin refused to forgive me; for weeks, every time I looked into our alpha boy's eyes, they accused me, insisting that we could have saved him if only we'd just, you know, done it.

I don't know whether we could or not. I do know that I still feel guilty that we didn't try, but I had external pressures on me at that time, and I was not the one who could make the final call. And so I held him in my arms on the table, and he curled into the crook of my elbow and looked up at me as if to say that he knew, and it was okay, and then he snuggled in and closed his eyes and went to sleep. And never awakened again.

He's one with the land now, like the others. Six days was nothing; he had our hearts locked up within six hours. He was such a little tough guy, afraid of nothing, following us everywhere we went. He still comes with us, in our hearts. We love you, Little Thunder, our Little Big Man. 



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2017; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.