We drove out to Lynden on a Saturday in May to look at a litter of six, and we had every intention of thinking about it. Biscuit was the one who fell asleep on Dad's boot while the others climbed the fence. Eleven weeks old, already certain of where she belonged. We paid the man in the barn and drove home with her on my lap, and she did not wake up once.
She was a morning dog. The same loop every day for fourteen years: down Iron Street, past the bakery where Ellen kept a biscuit behind the counter and pretended to be surprised every single time, then back along the water. In summer she swam. In February she also swam, which the vet had opinions about. She was reliable in every way except one — she never once came when called if there was a heron involved, and there was very often a heron involved.
The middle years all run together, which I think is what good years do. Lake Padden every June. The blue chair by the window that was technically ours and functionally hers. Christmas mornings where she was more excited about the paper than anything in it. She learned the sound of our car from two streets away and would be at the door before we'd parked.
Around thirteen the stairs got long, so the couch came downstairs to meet her. She spent that last year in the square of sun by the sunroom door, moving with it across the floor through the afternoon like a very patient cat. She still wanted the walk. We just made the walk shorter, and then shorter again, until it was to the end of the drive and back, and she was still pleased about it.
She died on the second of February, on the rug, with all four of us and the door open so she could smell the rain coming. It was quiet and it was kind and she was not afraid. Dr. Nguyen came to the house, which I will never stop being grateful for.
Fourteen years, eleven months. I keep finding her hair in things I've washed twice. The house is the same size and it isn't.
