The Tree

           

           A special tree has fallen. I saw it on Sunday and felt a pang in my heart. The tree was like an old pal. To see it down and in the water was like seeing an elderly friend on the ground, sad and undignified.

            I discovered the river walk the first time I visited my husband in San Angelo. The locals directed me to it and I knew, as soon as I saw it, that it would be a place I would frequent and that my upcoming move to this town would be okay.

            The tree, stretching and reaching out over the river, welcomed me that day too. What a joy to discover it was inhabited by herons, at least four nests. I was mesmerized. I’d never been so close to these iconic birds.

            Herons have always symbolized something sacred to me, a spirit animal of sorts. To see so many up close and personal was a good omen. The tree became known in my mind as the nesting tree. It was a touchstone in my new life, in my new town, where I felt alone and unsure.

            The next nesting season something horrible happened. The tree died. The herons and their nests were gone. I felt somehow adrift until my eyes followed the tallest dead branch of the tree as it reached out over the river, as if pointing to the trees on the opposite bank, showing me where the new nests were.

            Now the nesting tree had become the pointing tree, still my touchstone. It was as if a neon sign had been erected on the riverbank, flashing “Herons this way!” Their new home is even grander than their original tree. A larger colony has taken up residence.

            On my morning walks the pointer tree has stopped me, has pulled me from my meditation or mindlessness every time I approach with a reminder to stop and watch the herons; to stop and “smell the roses.”

I’ve watched chicks pop their heads out of the nest waiting to be fed by mama and papa heron, I’ve seen fledgling flights, and watched the patience it takes to stalk one’s prey. All because the pointing tree was there showing me where to look.

Now it has fallen down, its root ball exposed in a most unbefitting manner, its branches mostly under water, yet still trying to reach across the river, still pointing toward the nesting herons, still reminding me to take a break from my ruminations and take in the beauty I’m in the midst of.

I’m not sure how long the fallen tree will remain. Perhaps it will be hauled off by park workers or moved by the current of the river. But for now it is there in its new role. Now it is the resting tree. I’ve seen cormorants stopping to watch for fish and turtles sunbathing. I’ll visit the tree for as long as it is there. I will rest beside it and look for what it will tell me in its final chapter. It is a dear old friend.

Rainbow Bridge

In the past few days my dear friends, Sunny and Teri, have lost pets, have had their pets cross the Rainbow Bridge. I feel for them. I hurt for them. I cry for them. Their loss is made more significant to me because my Dixie-Dog is approaching the Rainbow Bridge. She officially has congestive heart failure, arthritis, cataracts, and she is deaf. She can no longer hear me calling to her.

Our love affair began when I decided I wanted a dog for companionship. My husband worked non-stop. I wanted something to come home to. I didn’t realize that that “something” was the most self-aggrandizing thing possible. When I come into the house my dogs go berserk. They throw themselves at my feet in total adulation, I am not worthy. They love me beyond anything I could ever comprehend. What a rush.

One falls in love with their dog. I had no idea that when I decided I wanted a pet that I would develop a life relationship. My first thought was “I’ll adopt a mutt from the shelter.” I decided I wanted a medium sized dog. I’m not a purse-size dog person. I began looking at the website of the local no-kill animal shelter. There was a beautiful “mother.” She’d just had pups and was at a foster home. I made an appointment to visit her.

I told my husband I was just going to look. I pulled up to the property, got out of my car, and walked toward the front door. A black and white Border Collie with a red bandana strutted down the steps toward me. Was this a set-up? She sat down in front of me and raised her paw to shake hands. Oh my. I was smitten. This was my dog. The paperwork went quickly. I paid my $75.00 and promised not to let her ride in the back of a pickup truck.

As I left the property of the foster home with my new companion I realized I had no idea what to do.  I stopped at the local pet store and bought all the necessary accroutrements. As I was loading my car with dog food, and a kennel, and blankets, and treats, and leads and collars, and books on how to let a Border Collie raise you, my husband drove into the parking lot and said, “I knew I’d find you here.”

I felt as if I’d been caught in a torrid affair. “How did you know I’d be here,” I asked. He knew. That’s what he does. He knows!

Years later Dixie is still my companion. Whatever room I am in, she is there also. She sheds more than I thought she would. She is old and coughs and hacks up disgusting “stuff.” She passes gas that would put any teenage boy or old man to shame, but she is mine. I can tolerate the hacked up fur balls, the “un-godly scented vomit,” the gastric aroma, and the shedding.

What I can’t abide is the thought that she will leave me soon. I will love and cherish her until then, thankful that some Higher Power had the brilliant idea of dogs!