I never wanted a dog. My granddaughter gave me the scraggly little dog because she said we needed each other. The mutt was found in the parking lot of the building where she works. It was shivering from the cold and so hungry you could clearly see her ribs from under a thin membrane of skin. The skin was crusted with dirt and so many fleas that it looked as if they were colonizing the sparse fur. Maggie said that she would have taken it to the pound without another thought except there was something in the dog’s eyes. There was a spark of life so joyfully abundant that it belied the outward appearance of urban despair and showed a gleaming inner strength of happiness in simply being alive.

Maggie said I needed her for company. Apparently, she’d been concerned about my mental well-being since George’s passing. I’ve tried to calm her fears about my solitary life; she just doesn’t understand the peace I’m enjoying. After fifty-three years of marriage and family care, I’m finally my own person. I can keep my home the way I want it without consideration of someone else. I can make a meal without hearing, “You know I don’t like peas, why do you always try to slip peas in the stew?” as if he suspects that I’m trying to slowly poison him with an occasional vegetable. And let me tell you truthfully, I’m very happy to not have to constantly pick up boxers and socks carelessly discarded on the bathroom floor.

But I have to admit, the silence can be deafening.

There’s a strange security in hearing the deep voice of a man I’ve lived with for more than half my life, “Honey, where’s that blue tie with the green dots”, “Yes, as a matter of fact I am going out looking like this, I like this shirt”, “Sarah, come out and see this sunset; God’s watercolors are spectacular today.” Sometimes I still hear that familiar voice, no I’m not going crazy and seeing ghosts, but the memories of a life lived together cannot be snuffed out like a candle. They hang in the air like party balloons, expanded and made buoyant by the breath of the past. 

The ribbon of one balloon is tied to the doorway in the kitchen where there are etches made to mark the progress of the kids’ growth spurts. I can remember the sounds of laughter as they teased each other with their childish competition. Another is tied to the little table by the front door where the mail was always gathered. There were voices of joy as packages arrived and voices of sorrow with harbingers of tragic news. One is attached to the dish on the bureau in the bedroom where George always emptied his pockets. The voice of that balloon speaks of normal, everyday life, “How was your day” kind of thing. I would sometimes see odd things he had taken out of his pockets and put in that dish: a small broken chain, a smooth rock, a bottle cap. I never asked him about the significance of these strange items.

Now the dish holds a few coins, I just can’t bear the sight of it empty.

When Maggie brought the little dog over, I really wanted to tell her that I didn’t want it. But Maggie gave her out of her love and concern for me and I just couldn’t reject the gift, it would be like rejecting Maggie’s love. So, I graciously accepted her love and the filthy, smelly, but obviously happy little beast. I instantly took her to the basin in the garage, I certainly didn’t want to bathe her in one of the house sinks, who knows what would come out of all that dirt. When scrubbed sufficiently, she was rinsed and dried for a more thorough inspection. Out from under all the grime, her fur fluffed up a bit. The ink-black color tried to shine, but it couldn’t possibly out shine those eyes. Yes, Maggie was right, there was an inner light to those eyes. I figured I’d keep her after all. If nothing else, she would give me an excuse to go for a regular walk like my doctor was always trying to get me to do.

She was clean, fed and happy, so happy that she jumped up and licked me right in the mouth. That’s how she got the name “Frenchie.” Frenchie became a fixture not only in my house, but also around the neighborhood. While on our walks she would happily greet everyone she met, both human and animal. She even loved cats and would play with them if they would stay and play. If they ran away, she figured that they wanted to be chased and did so joyfully. She especially loved the children on the block and would run and jump with them and bark with them when they laughed. The only thing she didn’t like is when she felt the children were going too fast on their bikes or skateboards. She would chase them and try to get them to stop.

She wasn’t nearly as concerned about her safety as I was.

As time and life went on with little Frenchie, I started to notice changes in the house and in me. The house didn’t seem as claustrophobic as those balloons started to deflate a bit. The regular walks perked up my spirit as I became reacquainted with my long time neighbors and got to know the newer ones.  The children started coming over to ask to play with Frenchie and I would make cookies for them to eat. I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since I’ve had a reason to bake. I’d always enjoyed baking, especially cookies, especially cookies for happy children.

It felt like a new page was starting to turn in the book of my life. George was still in my heart and my head, that’s one habit I’m never going to break, but the memories didn’t seem as painful. Honestly, I didn’t even realize they were painful until the ache lessened a bit. I think George would have liked the little dog; he was the one with the light heart. As I worked through my “to-do” lists, he would spontaneously gather the family for a day at the amusement park or pack everyone up for a comedy at the theater. He said we were a good match because I would make sure the important issues were completed and he would make sure the important living was done.

Come to think of it, George and Frenchie were a lot alike.

Sammie from down the street came by to see if Frenchie could come out and play. Sammie noticed the aroma wafting from the kitchen and his eyes sparkled. I sent him off with the dog and two of my best Snickerdoodle cookies. I could hear Sammie laugh and Frenchie bark as they ran up the street to play with the other children. I put the remaining cookies in Grandma’s cookie jar, except one to go with my tea, and settled down to watch my stories on television.

The next few minutes went by as a blur. I heard a barking dog, not Frenchie, one that sounded much bigger and angrier. The sound flew by the front of my house and down the street so quickly that it barely registered until it was too late. I jumped up and ran to the door as quickly as my arthritis allowed. I flew open the door and saw a small circle of children around what appeared to be a furious ball of fur, like what you would see in a cartoon, only this one featured the jet-black fur of my little Frenchie. The children were screaming and trying to break up the dog fight between their beloved neighborhood dog and the vicious interloper from the next block.

By the time I got there, it was over.

Mr. Bratton from across the street had managed to get the dogs apart and somehow confined the large brown dog that still had bloodied black fur in its mouth. Sammie tearfully said that the dog didn’t even see Frenchie, but lunged first at his little sister, Amy. Frenchie jumped up and sank her teeth into the big dog’s neck, but she didn’t have a chance in the fight. The large dog turned around and swung Frenchie like she was a rag doll. The little dog hit the pavement and didn’t move again. Only her eyes moved as they swiveled to look up at me.

I felt the sobs well up inside as I witnessed the light dimming from those shiny eyes; tears that couldn’t fall for my husband fell with abandon for this little dog. When my George died, I felt that there was too much to do to allow myself to fall apart, with Frenchie, there’s nothing I could do. So the sorrow I’ve held back for so long is now coming out in a flood, sorrow for the man who left a hole in my heart and sorrow for the little dog who tried to fill it.

The little dog that mirrored of the love of my life was now also gone.

It’s been a few years since that horrible day; Maggie got married and moved to Denver, Sammie is entering college in the fall and Amy still has a scar and a manic fear of dogs. All the old folks on the block still occasionally mention Frenchie’s love for the neighborhood children and her bravery on that day.

I don’t make as many cookies anymore, but I don’t gather spectral balloons either. Both George and Frenchie tried to teach me the importance of a light heart. Living in the past with drudgery isn’t healthy for me and certainly not a valid memorial to them. They knew the significance of living a full life and I’m trying to model their philosophy.