Pour a little out tonight for Cleopatra Sehr, the first dog I knew. I was in my 20s, and at first Cleo wasn’t so sure about me. I wasn’t sure about her, either, I didn’t know anything about dogs. I’d met them before, of course. This is a dog. This is our dog. This is Dog’s Name. But I’d never spent any time with them, observed them or interacted beyond a pat.
I confided to Gabe that I didn’t understand pets. I grew up with itty things in cages. No cats, no dogs, no ponies. “I don’t think I could take care of a dog.” I meant budget for it. Dollars for kibble, time for walks, all the little showing up when something depends on you.
Gabe is taken aback. “I don’t take care of her! She takes care of ME!”
At the time I took it for clever, but after getting to know her and especially after Robin and Mudcat, I know now how true it is — for Gabe, for Arthur and me, for everyone who lets a pet into their lives. They comfort and challenge our bad moods, zen-now-mystic pull us into their moment and remind us what’s important, elemental, authentic. Smells and romps and toothy grins.
Thank you, Cleo, for being such a good friend — for taking care of Gabe, and for teaching so many humans so many things. We love you and we’ll miss you so much.
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