Farewell to Wilf

Farewell to Wilf

At three twenty-two this morning I was awakened by a slow rocking motion not unlike the swaying of a boat tied up to the dock in a placid river.  A pleasant dream and one I was in no hurry to vacate.  However, as the motion continued, growing increasingly more emphatic, I opened my eyes to find  myself staring, not at sun-dappled ripples of water, but straight into a pair of almond shaped eyes the colour of chestnuts, eyes that stared deeply into my own from barely three inches away.  It was Edward, his big furry paw placed on the side the bed just at my chin, pushing insistently, over and over, for my attention.  Most unusual for a dog known to be a sound and serious sleeper.  Raising myself up on one elbow, I reached over to scratch his head.  His fluffy tail, which had begun its jubilant rotations the moment I’d opened my eyes, now reached its full and usual speed.

“What is it?”, I asked.

No reply.

Slipping out of bed, I crept over to the windowseat and pulled back the lace curtain to gaze out at the garden.  Edward jumped up to sit beside me.  The mammoth moon of May was waning now, layers of honeyed light dripping down through the trees to settle on the white hydrangeas and white roses, making them glow.  White petunias spilled out over the old stone pots like milk and silver shadows were unfurled beneath the pines.  

I didn’t ask myself if Edward knew about Wilf.  Did he perhaps sense my heavy heart as I thought about that dear family deep in the heart of France, so many miles from our door?  Or does his knowledge of the unseen and unknowable far exceed my own?  These being questions I’ll never answer this side of the veil, I was content just to sit gazing out at the exquisite night with my big wise dog by my side.
  

In the morning when I learned of Wilf’s passing, I could not stop myself wondering.  In the bits of gleaming white that adorned my back garden this morning at three, could some of them have been, just perhaps, the shadow of a little polish sheepdog, his fur the colour of moonlight itself, on his way past the stars? 
 Did Edward wake me to say farewell?

For those of you unfamiliar with my favourite blog, do pay a visit to dear Angus today.  Wilf laughed at his dire diagnosis and lived, fully and delightfully, for an entire year and eight months longer than he was supposed to.  His long, happy journey now ended, I know his devoted Angus would appreciate a kind word or two from my sweet, generous readers.  You may find him HERE.