Cheryl suggested the party in early December. I was indifferent but fourteen years of marriage mandated support, so it was a great idea.
She made up the guest list. It was comprised of neighbors, old work friends, and current acquaintances. Twenty three couples were invited, twenty accepted. I agreed to make the meatballs, plan and serve the drinks, and handle the music and lights. Cheryl made all kinds of food, sent out maps and directed me where to place the bar and the meatball crock pot. I set up the music and the glasses, shoveled the front walk, arranged for the lights to dim, and waited for the people, who came promptly in droves.
We had not thrown a party in two years. This was to be elegant. All the drinks would be served in glass. We had a sliced ham, oyster remoulade, salmon and vegetable dip, sweets and coffee in Haviland china . Three couples called the day of the party to cancel, but the doorbell came to life at five in the afternoon and never died. Thirty people came and drank and ate and went home. Four people, besides Cheryl and I, were left at the end with coffee and a fire in the fireplace. They were neighbors – from two or three houses away. We basked in the glow of a very nice evening.
We were sitting in the living room when the doorbell rang. It was the man who lived three houses up the hill. That was the house where two years ago the husband had died on Christmas Eve from a heart attack. The man who had died was a heart surgeon and his wife and family had since moved from the house to a smaller one and now this new guy and his family had moved in and he was the one at the door. I thought he was coming late to the party, because he was a familiar face, but he looked quite distressed.
I had drunk three glasses of wine. We were concluding a very successful party. Everyone had left on a note of revelry. The six of us were relaxing in the living room in front of the fire sipping our brandy, and this man was at the door. He was asking about whether we were the owners of a black dog. I noticed that the front gate was open.
Canaima was thirteen years old and deaf and blind and defenseless. She wandered aimlessly when she got out and we were grateful every time we got her back. This time she had not escaped the wheels of the Explorer as it backed out of the garage of the house up the hill. She lay crushed on the asphalt, twitching as she died. As I walked up the driveway I could not bring myself to touch her. I had to go back and get Cheryl to determine that she was dead. We sobbed together in the cold and carried a blanket wrapped dog to our garage, where we put in her in a cardboard casket.
The neighbors had put Lauran to bed, but now we had to tell her that Canaima was gone. Oh tears. We allowed Lauran to pet the body in the box in the living room. I dug a grave in the back yard. Lauran had a flashlight and asked to see her as she lay in her place, and there Cheryl and I stopped up short. Why let a little girl look at a dead dog body at the bottom of a cold hole? What memories could that engender? But why not? This was real life and closure was needed. We shone the flashlight in and there lay Canaima cuddled the same way she slept at the foot of our bed. Sleeping forever.
Our ritual at night is to do prayers and rocking before Lauran goes to bed. We read a story and cuddle as a family on the L’s bed and sing a lullaby. I sang Taps tonight. Lauran asked what does it mean "God is nigh?"
We looked out her window to Canaima’s snowy grave in the backyard garden. We will cry ourselves to sleep tonight.
January 2, 1997