Note to my readers: one day shy of her 14th birthday, our border collie Natasha died after a brave battle with kidney failure. In her memory, I wanted to share an essay from 2005 about my faithful companion. I hope you’ll indulge me, just this once.

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The sun had been AWOL for the last eight October days when suddenly at 5:30 PM the clouds part to reveal a brilliantly blue sky. Knowing this could be the last sunshine we see for weeks, I throw on sneakers and a sweatshirt, grab the leash and call, “Natasha? Want to go for a walk?”

Despite the frosty wind the sun shines warmly as we cross the street, being sure to say hello to The Man in the Tweed Jacket as he sits on his porch smoking a cigar. Natasha knows this block well. While I walk at a slow, steady pace she bounds ahead, stopping to sniff a telephone pole and then falling behind as I pass her, bounding ahead of me again to repeat the scene.

On the next block, a group of kids are playing football in front of the elementary school, and Natasha’s ears perk up as she trots ahead of me. She’s familiar with the school, having spent many afternoons on the front lawn waiting for the bell to ring, releasing Cassie from her educational prison.

A lone girl with blond hair spots us and, making a beeline for Natasha, hops off of her bicycle while asking, “Can I pet your dog?” She plops down cross-legged on the sidewalk and reaches for Natasha, who rewards her with a lick on the face.

“How old is your dog?” the girl asks as she runs her hands over Natasha’s back.

I do the math in my head. “Thirteen,” I reply, slightly surprised at the answer.

“Is she going to die soon?” the girl asks, looking up at me with round blue eyes while her hands are buried deep in Natasha’s fur.

“I hope not.” I pause. “Although thirteen is pretty old for a dog.”

“How come dogs live shorter lives than children?”

“Well, they say that a dog ages seven years for every human year they’re alive. So if that’s true then Natasha is really ...” I stop to count. “Ninety one?”

“That’s pretty old,” the girl agrees. “Does she ever get tired?”

Natasha is pulling away from the girl and straining on the leash as she catches a scent in the next yard.

“Sometimes she gets tired,” I tell the girl as I start to walk away. “But you gave her a chance for a nice rest. Thank you!”

We continue to the building on the corner, where physically and mentally challenged adults live in an assisted care home. As we turn, I see a familiar scene: A handful of residents pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of the door, some talking to each other, some talking to themselves, most of them smoking, all of them smiling as we pass. I recognize The Bead Man, and stop.

His face lights up. “Oh, let me pet the puppy,” he says in his gravely voice, holding his cigarette away as he reaches down for Natasha, who has crawled under his walker. The man’s face is half hidden by a floppy fishing hat, and his strands of gold Mardi Gras beads sparkle in contrast with his old gray sweatshirt. “You’re a good puppy, aren’t you?” He laughs as Natasha licks his shaking hand. She backs out from under the metal crutch and pulls on the leash to continue our walk.

“Have a nice night,” I smile and wave over my shoulder.

“Have a nice night,” he echoes, waving until we reach the next corner. “Come back again!”

We turn and for the next two blocks repeat the dance, albeit a little slower the closer we get to home. Bound, sniff, bound, sniff. We’re alone for the rest of our walk.

We round the last corner and are almost back to where we began. I can smell the Tweed Man’s cigar as we prepare to cross onto our street. Natasha is no longer stopping to sniff every fence post. Her pace has slowed considerably, she’s panting, and her eyes are focused down the block toward our house, where she knows a Scooby Snack and fresh water await.

The sun, so brilliant just a half hour ago, has already settled into twilight and I know that soon it will set behind the houses as darkness falls.


(c) 2005 Joanne Brokaw. All Rights Reserved. For permission to reprint, contact the author using the menu link.