FROM THE PARSONAGE TO THE POINT Bullet He died on the Sunday I spent in Charleston. It was an answer to my prayer. He is finally free. I knew it was coming and I ask God to hasten it. Bullet was an English Bulldog, old, crippled, and ailing. He was here when I came to this house nine months ago. It was not his physical appearance that disturbed me about him the most. It was his intense loneliness. There had been a female companion who had broken free long before. He never got over her I was told. He missed Muffin and spent his days lying in the fenced in back yard. Alone. Longing for a voice. A touch. A morsel of companionship. I believe his cause of death was a broken heart as much as anything. It was a sad thing to watch. And so I did not. I kept the back door shut against him. He barked when I first came. In the night all those months ago. A time or two. I have not heard him since then. I guess it did not seem worth it. He was quiet even when the deer recently leapt across the fence and into the yard and near him. He was well fed and had a place for shelter. In the snowy winter he was given fresh straw. I tried to get him to sleep under the garage but he would not leave the small pen where Muffin had slept. It was all I could offer. I had no more to give. I don’t go into the backyard except to shake out rugs on the stoop or to mow the grass. He would always amble up to me and I would make myself pat him. And speak soft and kind words to him. He was not to be ignored. He would push all his weight against me and nearly knock me over. He hungrily received all I would give him. He was starved for the attention. It would always be for just a short time. I had chores to do. I did not want to get attached. I would not allow myself to get close to him. I just could not. I knew he would soon leave. I would rub his head and secretly pray for his death. His escape. He was suffering. It seemed best. I knew the time was close and afraid it would happen while my granddaughter Maddie was visiting. Death is traumatic and I did not want her to witness it. When I mowed the backyard he would always get up slowly and move away from the machine. On that last week he lifted his head and put it down again and kept his place. He was close to the shelter and I just mowed around him. It was painful to watch. I looked away. He seemed to grow desperate those two weeks prior to the last one. He appeared at the front of the house by the door we enter through. He did it three times. We assumed the gate had been left open but then I saw it. He had learned to nudge up the latch with his muzzle and push the gate open. After all those years. He was determined for his freedom. And it came. On that Sunday afternoon. I was told that he opened the latch and came to the front yard and got under the truck where he was shaded from the July heat and he died. The backyard seems even more barren now. I mowed the grass today and could not help but look toward the mound of fresh dirt. I still feel guilty for ignoring him. But I had to turn away. I have my own struggle here. My own lonely fenced in backyard. And I wait for God to bring freedom. In His time. In His way. Bullet made it. He is finally free.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Aug 2014 00:05:08 +0000
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