Ed and Reub

All three of us, the two little boys and me, were Covid-masked, playing in the back yard for the first time in quite awhile. I was pulling them up the slope in a rusty red wagon, all of us laughing and muffled. Our young dog Cooper kept pace, excited by the fun.  Little A, only 3 years old, suddenly stopped giggling and I slowed to a stop.  

I want to see your gods he announced. I could see his furrowed brow.

We were next to Eddy's leaf-covered grave, planted with wild columbine. And Reuben's ashes, buried right there. 

"What?" I said. His brother L, at 5 years old, interpreted. 

"Your dogs. He wants to see your dogs."

Reuben has been gone for 4 weeks, and I realized that the little boys had not visited since it  happened.

 

Reuben died peacefully at the age of nearly-16, after years of ups and downs, medicines, training, and pure love, by the hands of our good vet. 

I asked A if he was referring to Reub. He paused and answered patiently. "There was Eddy. And there was Reubie. I want to see your gods." Eddy has been gone since June, nearly a year. But Ed and Reub were a pair, a kindly duo of furry friends, and always patient with small children.

I had to agree. How I would like to see them again, the two old boys, companionable and in the end, tolerant of nearly everything. My dogs, my gods. The ones who taught me so much, who represent an era of my life, and who inspired me to begin this blog so long ago. 

I must remember the advice of a friend. "What is remembered, lives" she says. And if a 3 year old can recall what has been gone for nearly a third of his experience, then that is certainly a remembered life.

Thanks, Eddy and Reuben. Even the littlest among us remember you.