Dear Sam

I remember you like it was yesterday.

At thirteen I left my childhood neighborhood, which my therapist dubbed "The Warzone". It was a violent and wretched place; my siblings and I couldn't so much as walk down the street without being attacked. I found myself on my wife's family's property; thirty three acres of woods surrounded the trailer I lived in. It was quiet. I could leave my house without being heckled and attacked by three to five kids, all turned and twisted by their parents.

But the woods are free of that sort of nonsense. There aren't people out to beat you to a pulp for opening your door. Being outside can actually be relaxing. Silence isn't the calm before the storm, it's actually just silence. Sitting down and leaning against a tree isn't an invitation for attackers, but a meditative experience. And seeing people isn't the start of a fight, but a chance to wave and then continue on with not doing anything.

I'd wake up, realize I didn't want to see anyone, and go out. Nowhere in particular, just out.  I'd never really experienced a freedom quite like this. I didn't have to have my guard up. Well, mostly. My mom was in the middle of another rough patch, my brother was driving me crazy, my sister was driving my brother crazy... not a good time. And that trailer was tiny. My situation had improved; at least I could go outside and hide now!

So I'd just go out and be by myself. I'd no wish to see anyone, by and large. I was free from people, why would I want to see them most of the time? I'd grown to hate people, as a collective. I still do, finding that the same principles that governed those kids are stronger in society, with just the right amount of self-deception and cowardice to cover it up. 

Notice I didn't say that was healthy.

This particular time I was by the creek on the hill. This was the first time that, looking at the beauty of the world, I felt so hollow I wanted to kill myself. What was in me was not like what was in those woods. I wanted it dead. It'd occurred to me that I did not want to be the way I was. But, unlike most people, I knew I could do nothing to change it. I was what I was. The myth that you can change yourself is pervasive, so sweetly deceptive, so comforting, and all the worse when you realize that to change yourself is to destroy yourself. Wheat and tares must grow together until the harvest.

Sorry, but saying that you just learn to manage is hollow bullshit. It's another sweet little lie we teach ourselves.

I grasped all of this at thirteen, sitting in the perfection of the woods. I wanted change. I knew that meant I wanted death. I yearned for it, needed it, and found myself begging for it.

And there you came, trotting up. You were always so calm. You took one look at me and sauntered over, placing your head in my lap, brown eyes looking up at me with that same wise, accepting, loving glance you had for everyone. 

I threw you off. "No, go away! Fuck off!" I found myself exploding at you. I'm still ashamed of it, honestly. I went berserk. "Can't you find someone else to annoy? Anyone? Go! Fuck off! I don't want anyone out here! I don't want myself out here, so why would I want you???" You didn't move, didn't even blink. You were watching me, accepting the verbal abuse without complaint. That made me angrier, of course. "FUCK. OFF. YOU STUPID. DOG." My voice rang through the woods.

You were so disappointed. So was I.

You came back in your slow and deliberate way, gently threading through the underbrush. I kept yelling. A part of me knew this was the death I yearned for, and now that I was facing it I knew I was scared of it. All humans are frightened of death, of change. Especially if it's the kind that comes from a friend. You came closer. So did Death. Harvest time was here, and I felt very stingy all of a sudden. I yelled all the louder, trying to drive you off.

And then your head was in my lap and you heaved a sigh, looked up at me, and closed your eyes.

I sat there a moment. "Stupid fucking dog," I said in a hollow voice. Something had changed, had died. You squeezed your shut eyes and nuzzled in deeper. I leaned against the tree and found myself petting you. "You're fucking annoying, you know that?" You opened your eyes, shot me a reproachful, yet gentle look and then shut them again. We sat there awhile. You didn't move a muscle, you just stood there, head in my lap. We must have been there at least twenty minutes. I kept looking around, enjoying the woods, and you didn't open your eyes for awhile. 

I was starting to get stiff. I stirred and you got up. You smiled at me. I found myself smiling back. You stood still, waiting to see what I would do. I started heading back to the house. I hadn't eaten before leaving the house and all of a sudden felt hungry. You walked back with me, your deliberate pace keeping even with mine. Our greyhound Haugen came out and the two of you walked up to each other, Haugen's bounding steps darting around your plodding footpads.

I went inside to chaos.

Over those months you were somehow always there when I needed you. I don't know how you managed it, given that there were three other dogs on the property, including your sweetheart Lily. But you were always there, walking up when I wanted to be alone but really shouldn't have been. Sometimes I'd try to get you to go away, but it always ended the same way, and in time I learned to accept the snuggles.

I think I may have missed you the most when I moved away, my wife aside. To this day there are moments when I look around and realize I could really stand to see your small black frame padding into view, head always up, eyes always showing a contentment and wisdom I've seen in no other creature. And I've met living saints. I know what they look like. There's an acceptance, a peace, to them that is quiet but powerful. I know the joyful sorrow, I know the look of the Crucified Ones. You outstripped them all.

I miss you Sam. Until recently I'd no idea how much. But no one else could have shown me what you did. I know you affected my wife similarly, not to mention everyone else you came in contact with. There's this small circle of humans that were permanently made better people because you were you. I'd no idea that anyone could be so loyal. I wouldn't have had that concept if you hadn't been there. Period.

There's a perpetual debate: do animals, since they're not humans, go to Heaven? Considering that most humans aren't even a quarter as kind as you I'd say it's an absurd question, one broached by people who have no concept of goodness at all. You, Sam, are there, waiting for my wife and I. No saint could contend with you, and I think they'd be the first to say it. Gone are your aches and pains; you'll have your tail back, that'll be weird to see! The pain will be gone, but the wisdom, the love, in those eyes of yours will be infinitely stronger.

I fully anticipate my last test will be if I can follow you through the Pearly Gates. Please, Sam, lead the way! I know you'll probably be a bit bashful about it, but I am your student; that last test will be necessary. But I know I will follow, somehow. Any world where you cannot be present is an incoherent world, a world that I do not wish to be in. God is many things, but incoherent is not one of them.

So yes, I will see you again. 

May we someday roam the Real Forest, that one that all forests are pale imitations of, go clambering through creeks, and look at the True Light filtering through the leaves that glow brighter than jewels. Without the shadows may we sit in that bejeweled Light, free of all care.

You were somehow in that Real World while with us. You saw me as I was and accepted it, and thus killed it. True friends in this world are kind torturers, and thank God, He gave me the best friend I could have asked for in that summer of peace. You will show me all the things that you could always see, introduce me to a World I have always ached for but, until then, would have been too bitter to know. 

We will be Home. Finally.

Until then, my friend, my mentor. Until then.