Seamus Has Arrived

On the wooden ladder in the garage, I carefully lean forward to pull down the small pile of metal dog bowls we’ve stored. I rinse them clean and bring them into the house. Paul uses the ATV to drive Muir’s crate up from the lower barn. I stand as quietly as it does. And remember.

I wander the dog food isle of the pet store and look for puppy food. I tuck a small bag under my arm, grab a toy that squeaks and a bag of fish skin sticks, that make me gag, for him to chew.

Once I have crawled inside the crate and thoroughly scrubbed it, I pull the still-full wicker basket of toys next to it. Standing back I feel the same as any new parent getting the nursery ready, part excited, part terrified… no, part terrified, part excited.

We lay in bed the night before we pick him up and talk about how our life will, once again, change. Bronte lays still on the stone floor, like a black and white rug. I anticipate excitement in the puppy coming and keep asking her if she would like a puppy. She stares up at me, confused or in denial.

I wake up early, my stomach pretends it is hungry, it isn’t. Bronte and I walk the sheep down to the pasture and I can’t help feeling like it is the last time we’ll be doing this in this same quiet way.

As I pass the garden I see the garlic leaves leaning, beginning to brown, I make a mental note to write this in our calendar so that in about four weeks we will pull the reluctant, newborn bulbs, covered with dirt from Mother earth.

Before we leave I sit and try to quickly catch up on a few emails. I send a link to a beautiful cello sonata to my friend whose son is dying. I look out the door and watch the breeze blow the bright green maple leaves. It feels wrong to be moving forward, to be excited when she can’t.

Walking through the house I make note of the quiet sounds; my bare feet padding across the kitchen floor, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, the Windsor chiming of our grandfather clock. Dishes tilt, drying on the towel next to the sink. There is a cool silence that feels heavy with anticipation. I gather my bag, car keys and shut the door.

We pull the truck up into Martha’s driveway. For a quick moment Paul and I look at each other, with love, for reassurance. We are boots in now. She comes out, carefully shutting the door behind her, smiles and asks if we are ready to meet Seamus. We nod and, in that moment my brain is completely still, taking in the complexity of feeling so many things at once. In a second, a tiny black and white puppy wriggles out of the door, as if without bones and, almost shyly, walks over to us. From a few inches away he launches into my lap with ownership.

Weeks into our adventure, there is no silence. Puppy toys everywhere. Methodical squeaking, like a car alarm, is the music to which our day is set. There are multiple Kongs stuffed with peanut butter wedged in next to the gin in our freezer. I find the odd cod stick hidden behind the towels in the bathroom. Seamus is a hider. Bronte remains aloof, the popular girl with the silken black hair who won’t let him sit with her at the lunch table. He leans under her and looks up, licking adoringly and she won’t budge from her stance. However, she will not correct him either so she is kind of on her own. As he has to go everywhere we go for a while, when she gets left at home she pouts and refuses treats from my hands.

Siblings.

Seamus is a wonderful sleeper and will stay in his crate without sound until we come and get him. We take turns each day getting up and walking out into the morning air while he relieves himself and then bringing him back and tossing him up onto the bed where he wriggles over to whomever is lying there and dives into the covers. In minutes he is stretched out, his warm, fat, cow-spotted belly heaving as he snores lightly.

I have unexpected moments of guilt. It reminds me of when I was about to deliver my second son and I was so worried about the feelings of my first. Filled with unfounded worry that I would not be able to love my second, Jesse, as completely. Losing Muir was so difficult, his name etched into my arm, how can he ever be replaced?

Early on a friend pulled their car out of our driveway and begin driving down our dirt road, Seamus suddenly turned and toddled off after her. Chase ensued and I realized that it was me who had decided he was ours, me who had taken it all in so completely. At that moment, for puppy Seamus, it was just another gig.

Once again our lives are different, as change requires. Our two Gotland sheep sold to a new farm, beginning their lives there nibbling young apple blossoms in new pastures. My mother continues her decline into the winter of her life, hanging on to the past with both hands as the future beckons.

Yesterday our son Josh had a free late-afternoon and joined us in the hazy, humid sunshine swimming in the river. He roughhoused with Seamus in the truck’s backseat as we watched in the rear view mirrors. Siblings.

Later, back at our house after ice cream, we say our goodbyes and Josh shuts his truck door. I, instinctively reach to hold Seamus’s collar as the truck backs out of the driveway beginning its slow roll home. He looks up at me and I let go of his collar, he turns, without moving, to watch the truck, then turns his head back to look at me again and sits quietly.

He has decided.