Where the Path Ends

The big oak tree marks a half mile from our house. To get to it you must pass our neighbors house with their barking dogs and wandering sheep that have a tendency to escape here and there. The road is potholed and muddy every time the seasons change. The holes in the gravel create small lakes changing our walks navigation after it rains. We are surrounded by farm fields outlining the path to the tree. In the summer the fields are drawn by the sun creating a scenic dream. Leading to a path where the creek meets the fields end. To my mom and I, this walk was a time to recalibrate, or something we had to do so you would get your exercise. However, to you this walk was your lifeline and to you this path is what we remember you by.

You were known as the prince of our neighborhood, being named Prince helped that title, but you ran around claiming your space to the four houses that lined our little dead end dirt road. Your pint-sized Yorkie phasic had us question a few times if the farm field was the best place for you to roam as we were worried about the cars and larger birds that made its way around our property, but you were always larger than life. Your pint size body didn't match your large dog personality. You never backed down from the fence next to the dirt road as you so ferociously scared the sheep and cows that crowded the fences. This was your house; this was your property, and this path was entrusted in your name.

Prince, you were a creature of habit and as you got older you relied on that routine as your form of freedom. I never understood how you knew what time in the day it was. You knew the words "Walk" from a mile away and would come barreling from deep sleep just to inform us it was your time to shine. This walk with you became habitual, rain or shine, day or night, it was our time spent together. These walks brought me out of a dark space after a heartbreak, re bonded us after being away while at college and was both of our time to take a break from everything else around us and just focus on one step after another.

When you were a few years younger before the diabetes came and took away your eyesight, you would triumph down that path, quickly moving your four cinnamon shaded paws back and forth, from one side of the path to the other smelling and stopping to pee on some hint of hay every few feet. On this path you were free to roam knowing we were there with you. I would always walk past you as you stopped and sniffed, because I knew you would do your business then set your sights and quickly catch up with me. You never had any doubts that I was too far away.

As, you got older, and the diabetes clouded your eyes from sight, you lost the ability to freely roam. Once liberated by freedom, you were now clouded by fear. The land you grew to know so well, felt the same, but was never seen the same. You were lost by the loss of your own sight. The idea of venturing out on that path you once had a clear understanding with, began to feel unknown, untouched and unseen. You couldn't feel the ground the way you once saw it, thus you couldn't walk the path you have always known because of the hindering fear of your next step being unknown.

It took months refamiliarizing each step around our house. Building confidence in your other senses where one lacked. Rebuilding each step in a new light, one that didn't revolve around your eyes. Soon enough we started rekindling your relationship with your path to the big oak tree. It started slow, as your sight retreated, so did your sense of direction. You no longer could rely on sight to see the end of the path, you had to sense the path in each step. You had to trust us that we wouldn't let anything happen to you. That even when it rained, we would keep you from faceplanting in the pond sized puddles. You were your guide; we were your protectors.

Soon enough, you built a trust in your senses, and that path was the highlight of your day again. A place that was known, a path that was sure for you. You knew the stops, the sniffs and the general area of where you were at. Once again this was your path, Prince. You had no uncertainty while walking this road, it allowed you to feel free again without the uncertainty of surrounding noises. You called the shots. You always would take your time going down, then prance back quickly, making me have to speed walk to keep up. You knew that this walk was your time and after you would get supper. It was your favorite time of the day, and somehow without any sight, you knew what time it was, and you made sure to always remind us. I thoroughly believe, the anticipation of this walk with you every day kept you alive. It lifted your spirits and brightened your outlook on your new reality.

This is where we come to the core memory regarding our path to the big oak tree together. The last week you were with us, we could tell something was up. Your insulin was unbalanced, and you had stopped eating and drinking. Anytime you had tried to drink water, you couldn't keep it down. You were deteriorating right in front of me. You became sluggish, unable to move, peeing in place. Your end was near, and my mom and I were trying to figure out what was best for you. The thought of saying goodbye to you felt devastating. Almost devastating enough to keep you in pain a little longer because that goodbye would be nearly impossible. That last morning, I decided we had to let you go, we couldn't have to feel pain slowly till you pass, that wouldn't have been fair to you. I scheduled your appointment for the afternoon, so we could have one last morning together. A part of me think you knew, because you seemed to be perking up. I think you were trying for us.

My mom and I decided to wrap you up in your blanket and take you on one last walk down to the big oak tree. You were weak, unable to move, nonetheless walk, but we needed this to say goodbye. My mom caressed you in her arms as we walked down the old dirt road toward the big oak tree. Tears were forming in our eyes from the heartbreak we knew was coming. We wanted that moment to freeze, to not be the end, that this walk would never come to an end. A quarter way down the road you started to shake out of the blanket, demanding to be let down. We let you down worried you were going to puke out whatever you had left in you. But to our surprise you started walk, not a slow, dragged walk, but one with purpose, One in the direction to the house. A walk with energy, guidance, like you knew where you were, and you knew where you wanted to go. Our eyes were befounded before us as you hadn't moved in three days, and before our eyes you were prancing home on your own accord. This gave us a slice of hope, but in our hearts, we knew this was you leaving on your own terms. Shortly after arriving home, you started having seizures in my arms. You had given everything you had left on that path and your body was telling you, that your path on earth here has also come to an end.

Shortly after we got you to the vet, you were gone. They helped you stop your heart peacefully, not in pain and surrounded by me stroking you head. The same head that go me through so many years.

We probably walked that path over a thousand times throughout the years. There are so many sunsets that we ended our nights with, days spend by the creek and memories I will hold onto forever. You gave that path everything you had, all the way up to your last steps on this earth. My memory of you will always be with that big oak tree at the end of the path that now many other dogs get to enjoy because of something we started together.

You no longer walk this path with me, but you will be forever in my heart as I follow a new one.