Archer: My Shadow

Archer 

April 2007 - August 2023

🫂🌈🐕 Archer dog crossed the Rainbow Bridge August 4, 2023. He was 16 years old. He leaves behind two cats he tolerated and two people that were his favorites. We will miss him dearly. 🫂🌈🐕

Archer was a medium good dog, but only because of the amount of mischief he'd get into. We had him on a home-cooked diet because of his illnesses, but he would try to eat all the garbage he could find when on walks. Only because he thought he'd get "best haunches" at the county fair. He growled warnings at his own cats, but would wag at strange cats he saw on walks. He never met a German Shepherd or Husky that he didn't want to try and mount.

Grief During a Pandimic

Larry Lou Foster

January 16, 1944 - February 29, 2020

76 years old.

Not all heroes wear capes. Sometimes they wear bathrobes.

At 3:38 this morning my dog, Archer, began to whine. This was not his, "I'm bored," whine. This was his, "Please can you take me out right now because if you don't I'm going to make a big mess on the floor," whine. 

I grunted, pushed myself up, and stumbled to find something to cover up my nightgown. I put on my big fluffy bathrobe, because it's not like I'm going to run into anyone at 3:38 on a Monday morning. I grabbed the keys and stumbled outside with Archer. 

Now I'm gonna stop right here and warn you. This trip outside ends in grossness. I kept the description to, what I feel is, a tasteful minimum, but maybe you don't want to read about it. This is your chance to stop reading. You've been warned.

About Death

I met with death today.

Not my own, not yet.

It just so happened, I received a call that a gray tree frog that I rescued last winter had been spotted. He'd moved from a greenhouse, where I left him, to the patio.

The lady of the house called to tell me that the Earl of Grey had stopped by to visit and I might get a glimpse of him if I came over.

I told her I would, but hesitated.

Her husband had a stroke several months ago and his health has been delicate. I felt like I was in the way the last time I visited and I didn't want to impose this time.

But she'd called and invited me over so I hoped that meant he'd improved.

I asked if he had.

“He's fading fast,” was her reply, followed by a short list of family who were there or in route.

Now did not seem like the time to visit. It felt like trespassing.

“I'll be looking for you,” she said before I could back out.

I got off the phone feeling lost.

I don't deal with death. And by that I mean, I walk away from it. I don't think about it, I don't talk about it, and I don't want others to talk to me about it. I know this isn't healthy, but this is how I cope.

Today.

Today I was called to go to the home of a lovely human I care about. Someone whose appointment with death had drawn near. 

Today I would face death.

The visit was short.

He looked small and frail and unaware. His lids fluttered slightly to the sound of the oxygen tank. His mouth hung loosely.

He didn't look like himself, but he had a face I'd seen before.

I'd seen this face in a hospital, in a nursing home, in a bed.

It's a face I've turned my back on because the reality is too painful.

I didn't cry. Not there. Not with him. And most certainly not for him.

I cried in the hall. I cried at home.

I cried for his wife, his children, his grandchildren, and his friends.

And selfishly, I cried for myself.

He is fading.

He is fading.

He is fading.

And with him goes his light. 

Doctor Bill, You will be missed.

The Gift

When I was about six years old, I believed in all kinds of things: Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, leprechauns, unicorns, and of course Santa. My parents didn't start me on this path of belief, it just happened. Though they didn't encourage these ideas, they didn't outright tell me that these things were fictional.

I guess they didn't want to harm my imagination by telling me they weren't real. Either that or they didn't want me to think that my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins had lied to me about this stuff. Whatever their reasons, they let me hop, skip, and jump believing these folktales and magical creatures existed.

Out of all these fairy tale creatures and magical beings, Santa was the big one. He was the guy that made sure that good kids got gifts on Christmas morning, even if their parents didn't have the money to get them presents. As a child with parents that struggled to feed us, this was great news. All you had to do to get a gift was be good. That was something I could do.

Before I go any farther, I want to warn you, this is a story about the death of belief. Specifically, the death of my belief in Santa. I know, real bummer, but bear with me, this story has a happy ending.

I Remember

Hi Jamie,

It's November again. I'm running around, working and getting ready for holiday dinner. My brain has been jumping around on so many things and this time of year has snuck up on me...again.

Every November 25th, I'm hit with your memory and I find myself sobbing. Two days before Thanksgiving, I'll be working on something and I'll suddenly remember you. We buried you on November 26, 2003

Every November, the week of Thanksgiving, I remember the last time I saw you.  I remember the last conversation we had.

The last time I saw you, you were working the checkout counter, at the Cone gas station diesel fuel isle. The day I'd stopped by was the first time I'd seen you in months. I had been avoiding you.

It wasn't your fault, it was because I was afraid to run into my ex-boyfriend. You two had been friends since high school and I knew he hung out a lot at your place with you and Larry. And it seemed that every time I drove past your work, his car would be there. I guess I could have called, but I was scared that you'd be mad at me for the breakup with Matt. You had introduce us and he was one of your closest friends.

The day I stopped, I was on my way to somewhere else and I didn't have a lot of time. When I saw that his car wasn't there, I pulled into the parking lot. I ran back to your counter. I remember you looked a little surprised to see me.

I don't remember how the conversation started and I don't remember most of what we talked about. I vaguely remember telling you why I hadn't been coming around and why I hadn't called. You understood.

Sometimes when I think back to this conversation, I remember asking you if you were angry at me  and I remember you saying that the breakup was between me and Matt. You weren't mad at either of us. But I'm not sure this really happened because I've relived that last conversation every year since your death and the conversation changes in my memory.

I do remember that my eyes kept darting to the clock. Someone was waiting for me and I had to go. I apologized for not being able to stay.  You understood.

I said goodbye and turned to leave. I got three steps and turned back around.

My memory isn't the best, but I remember clear as day what I said. I asked you if you knew that I loved you. You smiled and said that you did and then you said that you loved me too. I remember smiling and then leaving.

People tell me that our last conversation was what it should have been.

But every year, Thanksgiving week, I'm suddenly struck with the memory that in November we lost you. We buried you on November 26, 2003. And the last thing I said to you was the best thing I could have said, but in my heart I will never feel like it was enough. And every year, during this week, I break down.

You stood by me during a dark time. You were there when I cried. You were always there to give me advice. And every November, I remember that you're gone.

What else is there to say?

I love you still.

My First Rock Repel

We did this repel twice. This was my first time down.