O O Ø O O O O
Taz
This piece has been six months in the coming. I’ve tried to write it on several occasions, but always failed. Today I try again.
I was lying in bed when I heard the news. Though he was in another room, I heard Laura’s dad say clearly “Get the kids. Something has happened.” It was something in his tone that hit me. Something that made me snap instantly awake. I heard him say “There’s been an accident.”
All the blood drained out of my body. I went completely cold. I heard Glenda shriek, “Where’s Taz. What’s happened to Taz.” I heard my girlfriend’s cry: “No!”
I heard him say, “Taz was hit by a car. He’s gone.”
My world exploded.
This wasn’t possible. Taz could not be gone. He was my dog. If something was to happen, I would have to be there.
I had to be there.
Everyone in my house was screaming. I moved faster than I knew I could. I was downstairs in an eyeblink. I grabbed the nearest set of keys. I barked at Laura and Glenda to come. Now.
I had to be with my dog.
It was an agonizing drive. The spot on the road was only two minutes away, but no car could get me there fast enough. I needed to be there, but I couldn’t risk driving like the madman in my head was urging me to go.
Taz has been hit by a car. I am driving a car. I must be safe. I must get us there safely.
But I must be there now.
The madman in my head was now screaming. The girls in the car were screaming. The world had shrunk to a spot the size of a quarter, 10 feet in front of me.
When we rounded the corner where I knew my dog to be, what was left of my soul turned to ice. I saw the truck parked on the shoulder. I saw the police car stopped. And I saw the blanket draped over a shape on the road.
I don’t know how the car stopped. I had the feeling like when I was a kid, jumping off my bike before it had stopped moving. running to the blanket on the road. A woman was standing there, watching over the still shape. Part of me heard her talk; heard her ask if I really wanted to see him.
I had to. I had to be with my dog. I pulled back the blanket.
There’s a moment in your life, when you look back, that you realize you have crossed the line from child to adult. You realize that story of your life has changed from a story about you, to a story about those that you love.
If I had to put words to it, I would say that to grow up is to realize that you are willing to put the needs of others before your own, to realize that the purpose of your being is not for yourself, but for those who depend on you. And to realize that that is exactly how you want it to be.
I grew up that day, kneeling by the side of the road, staring into my dog’s eyes. I saw the puddle of crimson on the road. I saw the blood streaking his golden fur. I saw it all, but none of it mattered. I was looking for my dog in those brown eyes. I was looking for some sign that Taz was still in there; that he knew I had come; that his big buddy was there and that it was going to be all right.
I stroked his head and called his name. I held his paws, I stroked his fur. I cradled my dog on the side of the road; my eyes locked to his. Every fiber of my being was strained, staring into those eyes. Looking for the slightest glimmer of recognition. I would have given anything to see that glimmer. To know that he knew his big buddy was here, and that he wasn’t alone.
But the glimmer didn’t come. My dog had left me.
I don’t know how long I knelt there, staring into Tazzie’s eyes, but when I finally broke away, I was different. The story wasn’t about me anymore, and I didn’t care.
It is a hard thing, to carry out a responsibility when your world is dissolving. But it is the only thing that can be done.
I am glad for the kind souls that were there. For the wonderful woman that stood watch over my dog while Laura’s dad came to find us. For the young boy who gave an old man a ride when it counted most. For the helpful police officer, who never flinched as we screamed at him; never begrudged us our indecision; who simply stood patiently by, ensuring we had the time we needed. And for Laura’s dad, who had to deliver the news that terrible day.
I carried Taz to the truck, and later carried him to my car. I carried him into the small room where we said goodbye.
Taz, you will always be my first dog. The one that made me realize what it is to care for something. You helped be grow, Taz, and to realize that growing up isn’t something to be afraid of.
Rest well, my little furry buddy. I will remember you always.
Taz Little Wooding.
June 1, 1998 – Dec 26, 2001.
Kjell Wooding
Tuesday, May 28,
2002
PD
DXLIX