The small white box contained one German Shepherd, and one chicken. It sat on the passenger seat, where, twelve years before, a cheeky little puppy, on the way to his new home, stared back up at me, eyes full of anticipation and wonder. It had been a month since I left him at the vet. Three weeks before I’d had a call from her; “Lucien’s back” she said. Just for a moment, I thought he’d actually pulled off some kind of canine resurrection; a German Shepherd Jesus, the fluffy messiah. After all, he was constantly surprising me, right until the end. What she meant was that his ashes were back, and that my dog was no more.
I have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full of its tormented flaming life; and I have seen it wane at last, down, down, to dumbest dust. Old man of oceans! Of all this fiery life of Thine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes!
Herman Melville
Actually, he wasn’t really my dog; he was my son’s dog. Or at least, my son was his human. Every night, Lucien slept beside (or on) my son’s bed, watching over him, leading my son to describe himself as “the safest boy in the world”. Surely, the serenity that this security imparted contributes to the poise he now displays as an adult? In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, my son grew up, and Lucien grew old.
The boy had, literally and figuratively, flown the nest when it became clear that his dog was not long for this world; so it fell to me to manage Lucien’s departure. It had been raining hard that day, so Lucien was curled up, fast asleep, (on his mat in a corner of the workshop) when the clouds broke in the late afternoon. I looked at the clock; two hours to go. Knowing the exact time of his departure, I’d allowed one hour for his last supper but it should have been two or three. We went for a drive, then sat and watched the sunset out in the countryside. He ate a whole barbecued chicken, something he had never been allowed before, bones and all. Then he closed his eyes and turned toward the sun, smiling as its receding rays warmed his face.
Twenty minutes… Lucien trotted gleefully off to the car when I asked “drive?”. He always ran like Pepé Le Pew. He stomped around being generally cantankerous at the vet, as though he knew he now had immunity from prosecution. I wondered how much he did know and if leading him to his death was a kindness or a betrayal. It was both; my final responsibility to him. Even as he went to sleep he was still smiling and chomping down treats; a painless and fearless exit. One final sigh, and he was gone.
It seems that the chapters of my life have been punctuated by the lives, and deaths, of my German Shepherd companions. While my son has started his career, my girls are still at home, for a little while. One of them is about to complete high school, the other is her canine guardian, Aeryn. As I find my responsibilities diminishing for the first time in thirty years, I am reluctantly beginning to allow myself to muse on what may follow, and to reflect on what has been.
I’m not the first to notice that Australian society has not matured the way we once expected it would, and that “Australian culture” has become an oxymoron. What are the reasons for Australia’s arrested development? Given that I am powerless to make even the slightest course correction to this juggernaut's plunge through mediocrity on its unalterable trajectory to vulgarity, such speculation would be pointless. What is not pointless, is to consider what my form my exit, from my country of birth and subsequently, existence, will take.
Yes, I am being self-indulgent. Then again, I’ve had no time for such a luxury for as long as I can remember, so I have quite a few indulgences to catch up on.
Ideally, I’d like to retire to some quaint English village, in the late 1950s, with a nice pub or two and pleasantly green places to walk… But I’m afraid such a delightful hamlet longer exists, so I’ve had to consider alternate, and more realistic, destinations.
It’s not the English weather, and certainly not the food, prompting this wistfulness; it’s a desire to live in a place where people live simply and honorably, respecting each other and their community (cliché, yes, but true). Somewhere with more snow and fewer snowflakes. Somewhere with those pleasantly green places to walk, great mountain roads to ride, the world's best distilleries, diving, and food. An ancient and complex culture and people whose stories I want to learn. Which, of course, means Japan. A far green country… Where exactly, I don't care so much. Perhaps Okinawa or Hokkaido, or both but I hope to have at least ten good years there before I too am called to my long home.
Of course, all good dogs don’t go to heaven, at least not the celestial kind. For me, heaven is a little yellow cottage in a Japanese village, by the sea, so I can dive every day. I’d teach English and do other volunteer work, keeping my electronics knowledge well hidden; a superpower to be revealed only in times of dire need. And I’d revel in being the odd, local gaijin that wants to help everyone until it’s annoying and yet behaves more Japanese than the Japanese.
For Lucien, heaven was a much simpler affair. Just an hour in a green field, with a barbequed chicken between his paws, comforting words in his ears, and the sun on his face. Perhaps, one day, someone will be taking me for a drive in the country with a chicken, or, in my case, a good malt whisky. But I think that unlikely; a fondness for scuba diving and reasonably fast motorcycles will likely save me from the nursing home. There’s no better reason to get up in the morning than to go for a ride in the country. It’s ironic that a device so likely to deliver its rider to the reaper is also the best means to outrun him, for a while.
160 ponies grazing peacefully…
I placed the white box marked “Lucien” on top of the lavender one marked “Lorien” in a drawer that I open every duodecennial or so. I’ll be around (reaper notwithstanding) until I have a third box marked “Aeryn”. Those three boxes, my diving equipment, riding gear, and some clothes are all that will go with me; I won’t need anything else.
I don’t plan to own another dog, and not just because I want the freedom to travel. I’m not entirely sure the partnership is all it’s cracked up to be for the canines, let alone the innocent chickens sacrificed to ease their passing.
Like Dorothy, I’m looking forward to leaving Oz. But unlike Dorothy, I’ll be happy if it turns out that there’s no place like home, and those ten years may be spent enjoying… Serenity.
Please forgive this indulgence of mine; a small step in the actualisation of my next chapter and a wholly inadequate remembrance of my son’s most loyal companion, guardian, and friend.
William Crampton
And then it seemed to him that as in his dream, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.
JRR Tolkien