My baby girl, my Greta, used to take me for walks along Greenlake where all the people went to play. In-line skaters, daters, puppies, duckies, old men, and old women; jocks with pinstripe shorts and girls with pink cell phones, jogging. We did this several times per week, stopping at outdoor cafes where sparrows hopped from table to table and around our feet. Sometimes we cut across the street and headed toward the zoo, where she would raise her rubber nose and it would move askew—the nose of a grizzly in the air.
Other times she took me to the beach where she would wade amid the sea grass, the smell of barnacles and salt on my skin, as we watched clam diggers and she peed in the Sound. I told her it would take a hundred some odd years for that pee to filter out to sea, but she just blinked at me as if I were stupid. "I know," I said. "You're far superior."
She is. The trail we hiked near the Little Quil River was steep and green. The stumps were eerie creatures that loomed in silence everywhere. We saw the same stump, at the same time, and we must have had the same chill run down our spines, for she looked at me and I looked at her and we booked it back down the trail.
My baby girl is not a coward. She stood at the door with her companion Lou and warned the murderer at my door. Granddad was home alone, watching a baseball game. He said he heard a terrible commotion: Greta and Lou snarling at the door. Later, he heard a scream. The dangerous man had given up and crossed the street where he killed someone else instead.
She knows when I am sad and the kind of company I require. The week after I lost grandma, we climbed a hill overlooking the sea. Alone we sat and she leaned on me, her warm shoulder against my face. A raven sat in the tree above, squawking loudly in protest. Yet, my baby girl did not budge; she was the sun's rays as light dissolved behind the Olympics. She knew all I needed at the time I needed it—something no one else could replace. Her presence took command of grief. She was like a bear, one thousand pounds more, and a stoic, solid, gentle beast.
I can say a hundred sentences and see her eyes light up. She loves to watch a fishing show, or cats and dogs on tv. Even more, she likes to see the salmon swim upstream. Mention of a car ride tips her head, then she tips her head the other way when I mention someone's name—anyone she has known. Dinner is exciting, and of course so is camping, walking, and the beach. All she wants is to run, though never will again.
The cancer is eating her leg away. Each day I watch her closely, waiting for her to tell me she's too tired to continue. But each day she wags her stumpy tail and nudges my hand if I stop petting her. She wants the brush along her body, cooked salmon, and to sniff the evening air. She's carried in and out and given fresh water. All the treatments in the world will not bring her back to me. So I wait each day and take her in—burying my face in her sweet neck, telling her what a good girl she is, and how I love her so. I tell her I would not clone her—not for a billion dollars, because I would not want to see her live out another life of pain.
She's done her best, my baby girl. She's wonderful to me. She's the reason I could breathe, laugh, and sleep so many days and nights. Nine years we've spent together, watching sunsets and driving in the middle of no where. In tents, against my body, she was there to warm and protect me. She held me up to standards I could not hold to myself.
Now I must watch her go, my baby girl.