Go! Run through the grass, smell the scents of winter, of the ones who were here before you, of the crumbs dropped by footballers (they make you sick, but whatever), of the birds and the night visitors; don’t come when I call, live dangerously among the pit bulls, but live!
You’re fifteen today, roughly the same age as me in human years. You’re half-blind, and your hips creak, and you prefer bed to just about everything else except the park. The minute we turn into the entrance, you begin to yip. When your feet touch turf, your head lifts, your ears prick, and you’re two years old, charging off across the wide green space towards the tall trees beyond.
She’s a very special little dog, the breeder said before she came to us. Yeah, right, like they all say, I thought. My cynicism shames me now. Rapeti was a silver-grey lifesaver, an angel in wolf’s clothing.
What do I know?
Back then, it was me and my febrile granddaughter plus the first two chihuahuas, Tia and Poppy. I told her the last thing our chaotic household needed was another dog, but after her second attempt to end her life, I folded. What would be worse, I figured, a dead child or one more miniscule animal under my roof? Besides, my best efforts at keeping her safe had failed. The child turned thirty-one four days ago. Which goes to prove how little I know.
Our savior arrived by plane. There was a moment when we opened the cage and searched its depths for proof of life. Visibly shaken, the sixteen-year-old quavered, “What if she’s running around the airport, scared out of her wits?” Reaching for a soothing tone, I said something reassuring and once again peered into the depths of the cage. “It’s okay, she’s in there,” I said, my voice trembling with relief.
Two bat-like ears emerged from the cocoon of a red fleecy blanket, followed by two bulging brown eyes. “Oh my God,” said the girl, “she’s so much smaller than the others.” Smaller than a pound of butter, lighter than the blanket enfolding her, the dog nestled under the girl’s chin as we began the drive home. By the time we got there, Rapeti had her name. “Because she looks like a teeny baby rabbit.”
The Power of Love
To me, she was our sin eater. The name was once given to people who ritually ate a meal to take on the sins of the departed. It seemed to me that, in the same way, the little dog dispelled the sickness in my granddaughter and the fear in me. I now believe the child, starved of love, needed something to love that would love her in return, just as that strange song Nature Boy says.
Two years later, my granddaughter moved out, as I’d always hoped she would. She had her own life to build, and although she wanted to make Rapeti part of that, a flat without fences was no place for a dog, even if such a thing was permitted. Tia died in 2017, and Poppy in 2022; both were mourned deep and long, as it always is with pets. They live so closely with us, loving so generously, asking nothing in return but our love.
Now, I sit with Rapeti, enjoying a rare midwinter sunbath, and run a palm lightly over her fragile body. “Who’s the best little dog in the world?” I ask, and she turns a milky eye towards my voice. Her pelt has lost its wolfishness, gone almost white, the dark widow’s peak above her eyes erased by the years. She’s hale as lashings of love and care can make her, but she didn’t eat all her breakfast, and on our walk, I noticed how she ran a little way and then paused for a spell.
It’s hard not to dwell on the inevitable, so I remind myself that we only have this day, this hour, and this minute and that living in the future is a mug’s game. I lift Rapeti to my shoulder, whisper “I love you” into her ear, and am convinced I hear the words echo back to me.
Lovely post Anna - yes it's hard not to dwell on the future especially with a dog who's face we know better than our own - but if ever there was someone who appreciates the present it's you.
Love to you both
Rapeti leads her best life with you, Anna. And yes, dogs dispense life-giving love. We love and then mourn them. It is the way of things. Aware of time's limits, perhaps, its shortness together enhances the volume of love we share. But those extra special ones linger forever. I hope it is not yet time. xx