Merry Ho Ho Ho

The Christmas tree isn’t decorated this year, a first since your death, as I have two kittens in the house that would have loved to destroy every ornament and every decoration. They remind me of you—one minute sweet and cuddly, and the next, little demons stirring up some kind of trouble—and then charming their way out of their mess with kitten purrs, in stereo. Of course, you didn’t purr; you smiled and laughed and hugged and joked. You charmed and captivated.

Even without a decorated tree, the holidays descend as surely as the snow that has covered the ground, the deck, the roofs and the roads. With every shovelful, I think of you, and remember that eventually, you would grab shovel or roof rake and help clear snow. I remember you helping neighbors out of ditches, and I remember you did it with a smile on your face.

If you had lived, you would be 25ish, and you wouldn’t be living at home, but I like to pretend that you live close by, and you drop in and grab a shovel or rake and the snow disappears in your path like magic. You’d have a child, my grandson or granddaughter, and they call me granny, and they dance to my music and sit in my lap.

Instead, I have two kittens and a sore shoulder and no Christmas tree. I have tears that fall as fast as the snow outside my windows, and a heart that will never be quite whole. I have learned that I can survive without you, and my life is graced with music, friends, family, kittens, snow, and love. And that everything I have to say grace over today is a result of surviving your death, and one kitten pounce at a time, learning to live without you.

At first, I thought there had to be a grand scheme, as I searched for meaning in your passing. I have come to accept that you died in a car accident, that alcohol and gravity killed you, and that ultimately, it was an accident that scratched you out of my life. But I have also come to believe that I can honor your life, and find some solace in random acts of kindness and courage, and this has made me a better person. And that just makes me love, and miss, you more.

Merry Christmas, Niko. I miss you everyday.

Chollo the Dog

When Nik was around ten years old, he began begging me to let him have a dog. His media campaign included a list of the advantages of having a dog, and how Nik would be responsible for all the dogs needs. I hemmed, I hawed, and finally, I caved in.

Nik saved his allowance, and when he had enough money to adopt a dog, I took him to the Panhandle Animal Shelter. I hoped for an older dog, a pet that was mature and less likely to destroy the new carpet. Nik had other ideas, and when he saw the mixed-up-lab puppies, he fell in love with the biggest one.

We took the puppy home with us after Nik signed a contract, and received instructions on how to care for his new pet. The puppy came with a 10-day warranty, and I remember every day that puppy would get into some kind of mischief, and Nik would declare, “I’m taking him back.” But the puppy, now named Chollo, had other ideas, and Chollo would always win his way back into Nik’s heart.

Nik paid for Chollo’s dog food, went with him to the Vet to get his shots and have him fixed, took him on walks, and loved him whole heartedly. They were inseparable, and when Chollo ate a hole in my new carpet, destroyed some furniture, or puked on the floor, Nik did his best to clean up the mess and make financial amends.

When Nik died in a car accident, I took Chollo to the site, and Chollo showed me where our boy had died (the police report that I later received confirmed Chollo’s findings). Chollo mourned the death of his boy. We both moped around the house, going into Nik’s empty room and howling out our grief.

Chollo loved to go horseback riding with me, but after Nik died, he started lunging for the horse’s neck whenever I tried to mount. It was as if he was afraid of loosing me, too. Chollo’s horseback riding days were over, and I had to buy him a kennel to keep him from eating through doors, blinds, and screens to get to me.

But through everything, Chollo was there for me—my strongest connection to Nik. But dogs age faster than their humans, and as Chollo grayed, I worried about the final cutting of the strings that bound me to Nik’s memories.

John the horseshoer advised me to get another dog, because a new dog would bring life back to Chollo, and be there for me when Chollo died. The next day I adopted Little Girl from the Panhandle Animal Shelter. Chollo mentored her, and for the next two years, he had a revised spirit, more vigor, and more life.

Chollo, 14, got cancer, and we did the best we could. Toward the end, I prayed and asked Nik to take Chollo home, because I wasn’t sure I could make the decision to have him put to sleep. One morning, the number of my horse vet literally fell into my lap, and I knew that it was time to make the call.

The vet came out with an assistant, and Chollo died with dignity and grace in our livingroom, surrounded by his cats, his little sister, and me. He simply went to sleep, his heart still filled with love, but his body completely wore out. Much to my surprise, I had a head rush of gratitude, to be a part of his passing, to ensure that he went on his way gracefully.

We buried him in Nik’s garden, with four paws worth of Nik’s ashes. Today, snow, falling like angel wings, covers his grave. I see Chollo running, unhampered by cancer, beside his boy, wild and free.