Doggone unbearable

Life is bearable if I act as though I never had a dog. Then I see a forgotten bag of treats, or I walk in the back door and remember the tail-wagging, body-wriggling greetings I used to get after a day at work. The shields of denial part momentarily and, between them, my mind's eye gets a glimpse of my beloved companion. Instantly my entire body sags under the weight of the loss. Then the shields snap shut, for I can bear the pain no more than a moment.

Dogs have short lives, my rational mind says. You knew he would die eventually, so there's no reason to act like it was such a tragedy, it scolds.

Yes, but, but ...

Indeed. What has reason got to do with the bond that forms between two creatures whose entire shared vocabulary consists of a handful of one-word commands and non-verbals like head scritching and tail wagging?

If love were required to be "reasonable," there would be a whole lot less of it in this world. On the other hand, it seems quite reasonable to become attached to someone who has been with you through divorce, depression and displacement. It seems entirely rational to love someone who for more than 13 years has shared my tea, eagerly joined me on walks and slept and dreamed beside me.

Then it occurs to me that what would be more unbearable than losing Yukon would be to never have loved him at all.