[ApS]

This most recent mention of "The Bridge" reminds me that a recent pet loss might be softened by composing a poem or other tribute to share here. Within the last two months, I held back from offering a true event I composed here more than five years ago.

The occasion of writing the below event drew from a forum thread: we were discussing the saddest wilderness vocalization in Nature—the loud "Wail Call" of the Loon. The Loon's "wail" presents itself as though in lonely mourning for something lost.

Upon reading this previous poem of an old dog, this seems to be the proper time and place to post this tribute once again.

Echoing Memories

My old dog Fritz stood by the front door after his dinner.

It was the "wrong" door: We had a perfectly good back door with only a single step into a huge fenced-in yard . Fritz was 16 years old -- blind -- and three years past having heard anything at all. Sensing my approach, he wagged his tail as best he could...so...I opened the door he had selected. He waddled down the four steps into a darkness that was equally black to both of us.

He wouldn't want to go far... the yard was wet and, though this was Florida, a very cold, windy, drizzle had dominated the evening. I left the front door slightly ajar, so Fritz could "nose" his way back inside; after all, he was trusting and trustworthy. A long-distance telephone call from an old friend interrupted.

It was the second call in as many days regarding the U.S. Navy's U.S.S. Stark, patrolling off Iraq's coast. A friend had been aboard the ship participating as a civilian field representative when it was struck by two Iraqi Exocet missiles -- with 27 fatalities.

I couldn't hear the caller very well now, as the rain had become hail -- rattling firmly on the skylights of our cathedral ceiling.

I sat down on the hallway floor, changing to a portable phone on the way. Our friend was, thankfully, uninjured. Comforted by the good news and, after commiserating for a few minutes with the caller, I dropped into my overstuffed chair with relieved thoughts and re-opened my book.

Then came this distant faint wail: "Ah-Oooooooooooo" -- Holy Moly! Fritz!

Fritz' wet footprints were present, but Fritz wasn't on the front porch.

Another "Ah-Oooooooooooo" -- now from next door.

Our neighbors had left on a cruise, and there stood Fritz sitting below a dim porch light -- once again at the wrong door!

I splashed over in cold and wet stocking feet, and scooped up my dog. Fritz was even colder and wetter than I, and seemed to be shivering his last. Getting him home, I firmly rubbed his coat dry with fresh fluffy towels. (My spouse, an RN, had switched on an electric blanket in the guest bedroom -- no small sacrifice on her part).

Under the electric blanket, he gradually regained normalcy -- with his ears actually warm for the first time in years -- and by morning seemed none the worse for the experience.

He continued soldiering on for another six months -- unconditional love personified -- collapsing at last in our hallway.

Two decades later, on a black -- and bitterly cold -- autumn evening at Lake Winnipesaukee, I step out into the blackness to retrieve a few logs for the woodstove. As I pick up the last log, I hear a wail, "Ah-Oooooooooooo".

It is the sad, mournful, voice of a Loon -- of course. "Ah-Oooooooooooo" -- fainter this time.

Arms full, I close the door behind me with my heel, place the logs next to the stove, and dab at my wet eyes with my sleeve.

It's been twenty years, but...

Sounds carry.