Six p.m. Time to feed the dog. Except that the dog’s absence is the loudest presence in my silent house. Giving up my canine companion is one of the sadder parts of moving from my small-town, riverside house to a thirteenth floor studio apartment in downtown Seattle.
Tawny arrived at my front door in the arms of a friend eight years ago. She’d found him abandoned in the park across the river from my home. I named him for his tawny color, a mix of gold and amber. He’s also a mix of whatever breeds you want to assign him.
I should’ve named him Coyote after the mythical coyote trickster of Native American lore. Tawny would play his little tricks, like tearing around the house with an illicitly acquired shoe in his mouth. At my command he’d drop the shoe, perk up his big ears, and give me a wide-mouthed grin as if to say, “Wasn’t that fun?!” The dog trainer said he had an “attitude,” but that’s a lousy name for a dog.
I’d always thought I’d stay in this house at least through the end of Tawny’s life — surely another five years, or more. Recently, it became increasingly clear that the time to move was now. I made the decision sooner and more quickly than I ever imagined. With that decision came the certainty (the hope?) that there would be a good new home for Tawny.
As weeks went by, my certainty wavered. Friends repeatedly sighed, “We’d love to take him, but …” My ear-worm kept repeating that beautiful Bernstein/Sondheim song from “West Side Story:” Someday, somewhere … there’s a place for us.
Somehow, somewhere, there’d be a place for Tawny. I envisioned plenty of space for him to run around — within a sturdy fence.
The call came shortly before the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. It’s Francis’ sculpture you see in gardens, most often with a bird perched on his shoulder. He wrote the poem celebrating “all creatures of our God and King.” Many Christian churches celebrate St. Francis’ feast day by inviting people to bring their pets to church for a blessing. On the Feast of St. Francis, Tawny was invited not to church but to a new home, inhabited by a dog-adoring human and surrounded by two beautiful acres of fenced green grass.
Tawny’s new human partner recently lost her longtime canine companion, leaving her with a hole in her heart — a hole that Tawny is snuggling into. He can’t fill that hole — nothing could — but he can make it feel less huge.
Adopting out a healthy dog is not as heart-breaking as making the end-of-life decision for a cherished animal who’s in pain. Still, I’m bereft because Tawny is the last in a long line of faithful dogs — and occasional cats — who have enriched my life, grounded, entertained, and inspired me. Each, in their departure, left a hole in my heart. And each made my heart a little fuller, a little stronger.
Every New Season 
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