47. Sweet sorrow

I’m not much of a traveler, partly because of the need for domestic-animal care in my absence.  My serial standard poodles each had rare and chronic illnesses that required medications and special feeding and an eagle eye on symptoms.  I hated to leave them.  But truth be told, I usually find time spent with my pets, in any condition, equally enjoyable as time spent away from home.  Before I started having dogs, I had cats, and they were easier, of course — although my Russian blue, named Vlad (the Impaler), was known to hiss and growl and slash at any and all humans except me.  Anyway, I’ve always taken my dogs along on any trips I could, whether camping or hoteling or staying in friends’ houses.  And now I’m about to spend a week at a lakehouse in Maine that’s been a favorite summer destination for me and my current canine, Reggie the browndog.

"Don't forsake me . . ."

But this summer for the first time, I’m leaving an animal behind.  Gus.  And as I end my last barn visit before heading out of town, I find myself lingering, putting off the goodbye, feeling bad about ditching him.  He was frustrated when I took just a couple days off to nurse my concussion.  This time it’s nearly a week that I won’t be able to call on him, to practice tricks and reward him with treats, to brush him and rub his ears, and to take him grazing.  I used to pooh-pooh my horse-owning friends’ concerns about leaving town — I mean, a horse is not a house pet; it has pasturemates and is Just Fine spending many hours without human interaction — but now I feel their pain.  Gus is my every-other-day good buddy, and we’ll miss each other.

I feed him a few treats as a not-so-fabulous parting gift.  I employ my usual upbeat, crisp tone of voice to tell him goodbye.  And as I drive away, he bellows a hee-haw at my departing tailgate.