Before last weekend, my wife, Susan, and I had resigned to the idea that it could be many months, even years, before we’d find a home in our target city of Portland, Oregon. Inventory was low and homeowners were not budging.
Then our realtor, Melinda, called.
Within 24 hours, we were winging it to Stumptown to tour a two-bed two-bath mid-century modern condo in the city’s southeast Division-Clinton neighborhood. After riding a roller coaster of emotions culminating in a fateful visit with a random waitress named Tracy, we put in an offer which was accepted the next day. If all goes well, we’ll close in about three weeks. Then it’s time to pack.
But I do not leave the place I’ve called home for the past 46 years without profound sadness. Come September, I shall leave behind core friends and family members through whom I’ve transformed my life as well as my beloved medical speech pathology team members who’ve ceaselessly pulled the best out of me. Each is a cornerstone of the symbolic “town square” I’ve built my life around.
Our Lily, the Boston terrier, will also be leaving her pack of buds to tumble on the city grass without her. There’s Luna, the peppy Yulin Festival rescue with winged ears who looks more like a kite flying than a dog on a leash. Ozzy, the French bulldog, can squirm out from under each of Lilly’s Greco-Roman wrestling holds. Our building’s newest arrival, the needle-nosed Lani, matches Lilly stride for stride. Kush (formerly Willy), the beefy pit-bull and Lilly’s bestie of four years, acts nonchalant — until our girl kisses him on the mouth and his tail swashes like a pirate’s sword.
There was a time when Lilly didn’t know how to play — either by herself or with others. Five years ago, Lilly spun like a helicopter prop whenever a dog drew within a city block of her. Look how far she’s come. And, if she’s come this far, she might go even farther in her new, untrodden world.
Having the capacity for reflection (and possible neurosis, if I’m not careful), I can easily wrap my arms around my own anticipatory grief. Lilly does not possess this cerebral fold in her doggie brain. As we stuff clothes and select momentos in boxes and shrink-wrap fragile furniture, she will certainly sense that something big is up. But she will not bolt up in the dead of night to ruminate over how she’ll stay in touch with her canine brethren. I’ve taken on that task for her.
Stepping far out onto an anthropomorphic limb, I believe that Lilly may very well “miss” the friends with whom she’s had daily contact over the years. She probably won’t search from room to room or mope as a dog who lost a family fur-buddy might. However, she’ll likely be confused by the absence of familiar landmarks and the canine personalities and smells associated with them.
Just as my wife and I will need time to adjust to our new world — however welcomed — so, in her own way will Lilly. We will give her time to sniff, explore and draw the straightest connection she’s capable of between herself and her hopeful, new canine companions. She’s done it before. In her own time, she’ll do it again and again until she has a full stable of cohorts.
When the right opportunities pad around the corner of 26th Avenue and Division Street in SE Portland, Susan and I will stay close, yet far enough back to let that happen.