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Multi-colored
songbirds perform predictable reveilles, flitting about in determination.
Sometimes I hear the sonorous lone bark of a dog in a not too distant
neighborhood. I wonder if Sweeney was ever among this nocturnal
banter. Not any more he isn't. I have his ashes tucked in a wooden
box on a dark shelf.
I
couldn't provide him with the euphoria I sought for him in life
quick enough, so the least I can do is revere and guard his remains
now.
Instead
of enjoying the birds this morn, their merriment makes me mourn.
For I now know from the few vacuous conversations I had with his
owner, Sweeney was miserable and mistreated with the greatest of
scorn.
Sweeney
was never content. After briefly inquiring, it became evident to
me that he never had an opportunity to enjoy anything before his
premature demise. His existence being as ephemeral as a butterfly's.
I attempted to trick an early visit from the grimmest of reapers,
but it was much too late.
One
day after work I got the courage to pull up when his owner was in
the front yard to show him a large plastic chew toy I bought especially
for Sweeney. I told him I had an extra toy because my dog had too
many. I was hoping he would get the hint and give Sweeney something
to chew on. He lied to me and told me Sweeney didn't need any more
chewing toys, but on the couple of occasions I did manage to slip
behind the back of the house to whisper to the lonely, incarcerated
prisoner that I loved him and cared about him, and to check his
water bowl and offer him a veggie biscuit, he was destitute.
In
retrospect, I surmise his owner didn't want to congest his immaculately
manicured yard. Anytime I drove by, the warden was in the front
yard and poor lonely Sweeney was in the back yard on a short chain,
or in shed lock up from 10 - 5 p.m. He didn't want any unnecessary
clutter. He told me the reason he didn't let poor lonely Sweeney
into the house is because Sweeney produced fur balls.
The
first time he took me back to meet Sweeney, he was just sitting,
looking pathetic and bored, cooking in the shed with a window. He
pointed to the evidence, the fur ball and said, "See, that's
why I don‚t let him in the house."I glanced down and barely
saw it. I took the opportunity to quickly scan the entire shed floor
to see if he had any chew toys, but it was barren.
He
reminded me of someone perpetually waiting for a bus or for his
life to begin; like a horse chomping at the bit behind the gate
just before a race. He was deeply suspended in some other time and
place; a netherworld I could not yet reach. When I looked into his
small brown eyes, he looked distraught and anxious. I knew he was
hoping I was the great deliverer who came to set him free, to open
a new door for him to walk through.
The
"warden" told me that Sweeney urinated a lot and the reason
why he didn't have him get a vasectomy was because he wouldn't want
someone cutting his balls off. If he could relate to Sweeney's testicles,
why couldn't he relate to anything else about Sweeney?
On
the few stealth visits I was able to muster up enough courage for,
his water bowl would be nearly or completely empty. I would quickly
stomp back to my car furious to get a bottle of water to fill it.
He was never given anything to chew on, and I would wager he was
never a recipient of a tender kiss on his nose safe inside an air-conditioned
home in the bosom of his human family. He was always segregated
and discriminated against because he was a nonhuman who was owned.
Such is the life‚ of an inconspicuous, isolated (no companionship),
imprisoned (tethered/chained) dog silently suffering in solitary
confinement (shed) from 10-5 p.m.
Because
of his owner's uncaring, death was his only escape, which ultimately
gained him immunity. Sweeney was denied his right to life, liberty,
and the pursuit of his own happiness.
I
like multi-colored rainbows and pennies. They are signs that things
are fine for the Sweeney's of this world. They instill hope within
me. I saw a small rainbow on my front passenger's side car seat,
and found a single penny on the parking garage floor after Sweeney
died. They say if you spot a penny, quickly pick it up and put in
in your pocket. For a benevolent spirit has left it there for you
to let you know they are watching out for you. I have found several
pennies and brushed through several translucent rainbows in the
most unexpected places since Sweeney's death.
This
to me means that poor Sweeney is poor no more. He is frolicking
in Meadow #3 and #4 now, far beyond a Rainbow's Bridge with all
the others. His is gloriously vindicated; free to enjoy through
death what he could never attain in life. It is that portal he longed
to cross when chained and confined.
I sit motionless and teary-eyed, blinking periodically, probably
like Sweeney did, trying to make sense out of humanity's ceaseless
need to dominate. No mercy do we bestow upon them, so no mercy should
we expect back.
I
blame myself for his death. Had I acted sooner, he may still be
alive today. I ached for him every time I passed the stark barrenness
in which he was insufferably isolated; so lonely and sad. There
are so many dogs in Sweeney's situation.
Sweeney
died shortly after he was rescued. As soon as he entered the hospital
he was tested for heartworm, which he tested positive. The heartworm
was so advanced that while he was being treated, embolisms clotted
in his blood stream and he sustained seizures. I blame myself for
not being braver sooner.
I
went to pay my last respects to Sweeney after he was euthanized.
Sweeney's corpse was frozen when they took him out of the black
bag he reminded me of a pretzel. I had him specially cremated. And
although Sweeney will never know this, it will forever serve as
a symbolic gesture of the respect and recognition he deserved while
alive, but never received. He's dead because he had no rights.
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