Finally. I’m dead.
Hospital. Hospice. Sighs and goodbyes.
I was in the ground, then above the sky, and now I’m wearing my favorite sweats and walking on cloud tops. It’s light. It’s bright. The air is cool. It’s out of this world, and it all feels so right.
There’s no one around but Timmy.
“Did you get lost?” he said. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
His voice is sharp and strong. His eyes are clear and white. He has that haircut from high school, brown hair shiny like a Prell commercial. He smiles and sits atop a long cooler. At parties, we called them Coffin Coolers.
“Can I get you a cold one?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why not. Why not?” I said. “I’d really like that.”
Pancreatitis and sobriety are behind me now. I was good and sober for a long time, and I’m really good right now. My life was better after I stopped drinking, but I missed drinking.
He gives me a Corona – in a can! Like that trip to Cozumel. Man, that was a great trip. I sit on the cooler next to him and turn my can’s tab to the right, so I’ll know it’s mine. We tap beers.
“How’s your guitar playing?” I ask.
“I haven’t found the time yet,” he said, “but I will. I’ve been up to ass in alligators.”
Timmy takes a long pull from his Miller High Life 40, but the level stays the same. His eternal beer bottle stays cold, same as my can w/ ice beads. We tap our beers.
“How’s the golf?” I ask.
“Great, but there’s no putting. All your drives hit the fairways and every one of your chips go right in the cup.” And that’s good, because Timmy was a terrible putter.
“What about par 3s? ” I ask.
“Hole in one. Every time.”
“Sweet!”
We switch beers so he can try my Corona. His Miller is fantastic; always was when it’s crazy cold.
He puts his arm around my shoulder. “The wives won’t be here for years,” he says, “but the dogs are napping right over there. “
I stand up. “Which ones?”
“All of them,” he says.
I’m up. I quickstep around the left cloud and find them. All my dogs.
Cali and Abbie were curled around each other in their same dog bed. Abbie popped up and sprint circled me, howling her excited, parrot bark. She peed a little.
The beagle terrier put her front paws on my right knee. I held her head in both hands, and we licked faces.
I met Abbie on a river walk w/ Cali. Abbie was nervous and bug-eyed on a leash with a nice lady. I took off my hat, Abbie ran up to me and licked my face.
“She doesn’t like men,” the nice lady said, “But she likes you.”
Abbie had been the lady’s mom’s dog, who got really sick and died in a hospital bed right there in the nice lady’s apartment in the living room. Abbie stayed in that bed w/ that mom. After the mom died, Abbie would lay under bushes during dog walks and bury her nose in the dirt.
“You want her?” said the lady.
And Abbie came home that day w/ me and Cali, and when The Wife said, “What! Who’s going to feed and walk this dog?”
I said, “I am!”
Abbie hopped back in her snuggle with Cali.
“I was worried you’d forget us,” Cali said. “Oh no, I said. I just got here.”
“How’s June?” June was the rescue dog we adopted as a companion for Cali.
“Back home w/ Mom,” I said. “She still won’t sleep in the bed.” Eventually, I think, June will be here, too, above the clouds.
Cali was a blue-eyed beagle puppy my wife got me from Craigslist. I came home from work one night. Cali was in our house, with my two small kids, and a 20-year-old girl who was heading to California. She needed money, was selling Cali, and was wearing sandals. Atop one foot she had a tattoo: Disturbed Child.
The Wife and I bargained in the front yard.
“Who’s going to walk this dog?” I asked.
“You are,” she said!
“Who’s going to feed this dog?”
“You are!”
“Do I still have to put the kids to bed at night? “
“Yes, you do!”
The Wife knew I needed a dog. The kids didn’t do well on a leash.
“OK,” I said. “The dog can stay. But the Disturbed Child has to go.”
Meanwhile, Abbie farted.
“Hello, Bear,” I said to the best dog ever. He was spread across a queen bed, his head between two pillows.
Bear was a keish hound we found at the shelter in a past life. He’d been returned twice for eating shoes.
“If he fetches this ball,” I said, “Let’s adopt him.”
He fetched the ball, dropped it at my feet, and never did it again. We were together 10 years. He would chew through leashes and wear them like a necktie.
“I enjoyed watching your kids grow up,” Bear said. “They would have been a problem if I was still in the house.”
Bear slept next to Keith’s crib. I think he would’ve been okay with the kids.
Brandy was stretched out on a piece of carpet. Brandy was a small, rescue shepherd. She joined us when I was in high school.
Brandy was ready for a run. We would run together 3 miles around the lake. She’d race against me on the way home from girlfriends’ houses. She went on most dates.
“Please,” Brandy said. “Can we go running? “
“C’mon,” said Bear. “He might be able to jog with you. He was way over 200 pounds with me.”
“Ohhhhhhh no,” said Brandy, probably the least athletic of the dogs. “We used to RUN! On our street, he would sprint 200 yards to our house. Dad even won. Twice!” Brandy started barking.
Together, Abbie’s and Cali’s jaws dropped.
“You could run? You could have run with us all those times we ran away? “
I looked down and saw I was in a different shape, here above the clouds. Closer to the shape I was in college, not the podgy days of my party adulthood. Could I run now if I wanted to?
“Calm down,” I said. “I thought this was your naptime.” And they all of them put their heads down, noses over their folded paws, and slept.
I went back to Timmy, opened the Mario’s pizza box, and ate a slice. Mario’s has been closed for decades, but their pepperoni is still the best in this world.
“So this is what comes after?” I ask.
“Finally,” he said.
By Tom Sakell