One Year Without Sonny

A year ago I euthanized Sonny, my beloved husky of almost 17 years. It was raining hard that morning, and I took her to the beach once last time, more for me, perhaps, than for her. It wasn’t much of a visit, barely five minutes, but I cherished our last mini ramble together nonetheless. Five minutes is an eternity when there is nothing afterward.

Sonny and I rambled Oregon’s publicly-owned beaches over 10,000 times. That damn well might be a state record. In my mind, it is. What madcap adventures we had! I wrote a lot of them up. Others are strictly between us and the ocean.

I thought I might do something at the beach to commemorate the one-year anniversary of her death. I won’t. I thought I might write something special: I won’t. Currently, I have no financial or existential wherewithal to get a dog. My one and only goal is to one day have the ability to enjoy a dog (or dogs) in the manner in which I enjoyed Sonny’s company—as a mind-melded, inter-species crew bounding down ocean beaches at first light, midnight, in sleet, snow, rain, hail and sunshine, sleuthing out mystical Oregon stories, driftwood forts, limpets, and meeting unusual people, animals and mermaids.

When that dog-day-morning, afternoon or evening comes, I will know my transcendence is complete.

It could take years.