Renard was more than a dog. He was the brightest spot in my life. In our 15 years together, he’d made me a happier person. Even my husband, Jerry, said so. I smiled more, I laughed louder. So how was I going to face the days ahead without him?
The kitchen was so quiet as I made dinner. No sound of Renard’s nails clicking on the floor. No snowy white face smiling up at me as I cooked. No feathery white tail wagging when I smiled back.
I’d had other canine companions in my life, but to me that pure white American Eskimo Dog was more like an angel than a dog.
When Jerry got home from work we picked at some leftovers. Neither of us was hungry. We barely spoke, both afraid that once we let our feelings out we wouldn’t be able to stop. “Renard was very sick,” Jerry said finally. “We should be happy he’s in a better place.”
“I know we should,” I said. “But I can’t. Not yet.”
If only I knew for sure Renard was really safe in heaven, maybe I could let go. But right now all I felt was the loss. I got up to clear the table.
Everywhere I looked I saw signs of Renard: his food dish and water bowl in the corner by the kitchen window, the cool bathroom tile where he always liked to lie, the calendar beside my bed that reminded me his birthday was tomorrow.
I considered going for a walk just to get out of the house, but what good would that do? The yard was filled with reminders of Renard too: the gazebo where we used to sit and watch the birds at the feeder, the grass where he rolled around and played, the spot in the driveway where he liked to nap.
God, it would help so much to know that Renard is at peace with you.
I tried to watch some TV with Jerry, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the show. “I’m going to call it a day,” I said. “Don’t stay up too late.”
I went back to the kitchen for a glass of water. A strange noise made me stop at the window. I listened. Was it honking? It sounded like it was coming from the driveway, but the “honk” was like no car I’d ever heard. I had to see what it was.
The night was unseasonably warm when I stepped out the kitchen door. A white form stood out in the darkness. Something was resting in Renard’s napping spot. I blinked hard, thinking my eyes must be playing tricks.
But no. As I moved closer I saw that there was something there. An animal, in fact. But not a dog–a goose. A snowy white goose.
The little bird honked in the most distressed way. He was desperate to get somebody’s attention. Where had he come from? There were no farms nearby. Nobody who kept geese. He had to be wild, but what kind of wild goose looked as pristine as this?
I stepped forward slowly, not wanting to scare him. Instead of backing away the goose marched over to me. He went past me into the backyard, looking over his shoulder as if he wanted me to follow.
So I did. Where is his flock? Where is his mate? What does he want? The goose walked until he came to our gazebo and sat down in the grass. I ran into the house, filled Renard’s dog dish with birdseed, and brought it out with some fresh water.
The goose bent down his long neck and sipped at the water. Then he stood up and reseated himself in the water dish.
I couldn’t help but laugh, he fit the bowl so snugly. He seemed to agree. He got up a moment later and shook himself, throwing me a look that seemed to say, “Do you have anything in a larger size?”
I had no intention of leaving this show. I sat down on the grass. “Where did you come from?” I asked. The goose cocked his head before making a chirping sound, as if considering the question before answering.
I didn’t understand his answer, not speaking goose myself, but I couldn’t resist asking more. “Where are you going? Do you like the gazebo?” The goose answered each question with the same serious chirp.
It reminded me of the way Renard used to listen when I spoke, how we understood each other without words. When I looked at my watch I couldn’t believe how much time had passed while I sat with this funny little goose. “I’d really better go now,” I said when the goose blinked his eyes sleepily.
I got up and started to the house. To my surprise the goose ran after me, honking. “What’s going on?” asked Jerry at the kitchen door.
I introduced him to my new friend. “We had a long chat, but he’s still got more to say….” The goose honked for a few more minutes. When he was finished, he marched away.
I expected him to wander out of the yard, maybe even fly off. Instead he curled up in the driveway in the very same spot I’d found him–Renard’s napping place. From a distance those white feathers looked exactly like Renard’s white fur. I could almost believe it was Renard sleeping there peacefully.
It wasn’t just that he looked like Renard. It was that for the first time since Renard’s death something was making me smile.
I kept that picture in my mind when I got into bed. In fact I got up several times to check on my mysterious visitor. Each time I looked he was right where I’d left him, curled up in his soft feather circle.
At around 6:00 a.m. I awoke to his honking. The honks got fainter and fainter, and I knew my evening visitor was taking his leave.
I glanced at the calendar beside my bed, a red heart marking Renard’s birthday. What more could I wish for him than perfect peace with God and the angels in heaven? A white-winged visitor had assured me that my angel Renard was curled up on a cloud in the best place any of us could ever imagine.
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