Tuesday, May 1, 2018


Hamish Macdougal Mcduff
May 19, 2005- May 1, 2018

In Conclusion

I gave up years ago trying to express my distaste for kibble.  It is not so much that it is bad… rather it is simply boring, like chewing through a dish of styrofoam peanuts. Styrofoam peanuts of course have their own merits, but that is not a matter for the pallet!  It is something or other related to texture and a gentle gum massage. The actual ingestion of the peanuts is a byproduct. One which causes great concern and consternation among the humans.  Some unsolicited advice to any young pups reading, it is totally worth it….Eat some of the packing peanuts.

Back to kibble of course.  It is sometimes better to bend in a stiff wind than to try to shoulder uphill into it. The permanent addition of wet food to our diet seemed a substantial victory all those years ago, so I just tolerated the kibble all that time.  Nessarose never thanked me for that triumph, but alas, we all have our failings.
April 30th
Ironic I know, that at the end of things the gourmand should have opted onto the path of anorexia. It should not surprise really, being in lockstep with my other stubborn tendencies these many years.
I have spent my last days like royalty.  Lifted about, carried on my litter, fed the choicest morsels, and bathed by gentle hands.
She told me today, tearfully, "it's okay to let go..." 
But this is not the way of the terrier.
We don’t back down. We never give in. We won’t let go. We are steadfast.  We are fierce. We are sentinels. We are the light in dark places.
I woke up on the other side. Light mist, but warm, there were butterflies dancing over lush meadow. I felt the blood and strength in my hips and my hamhocks (No idea what a hamhock is really, but she was fond of grabbing hold of my drumstick hind legs and exclaiming, “Look at your little hamhocks, Hammie” punctuated by a small squeal of joy.)

I stretched vigorously, with accompanying grunting sounds before indulging in an aggressive, massaging roll, beginning at the sides of the snout, ploughing forward through the grass and allowing for some chest and shoulder, before flipping onto my back and giving it a very good grind whilst snorting and sneezing appropriately.  
April 30th. Very Scottish weather.
She should like to know, there are many of us here, Canine and others as well.  The bridge is visible at the edge of the meadow, dissolving into mist. It is not a rainbow by the way, though it arches as one would expect of something named the “Rainbow Bridge”.  It is more like mother of pearl, luminous in the ever-changing mist and sun, like milk poured solid then infused with glitter.
We may cross at anytime, but only with another traveler, of any species.  But most here are waiting. We are unencumbered by expectation, and for my own part, I don’t really give a damn about any Heavenly Host. 

Duty calls even from afar.  

A dog waits.  

Each place I mark instantly sprouts little flowers of aquamarine and yellow.  Faeries harvest nectar from these gemstone flora, though no one knows what they do with it.  Theories abound. My personal opinion is that they are inebriated on it 24/7, as their behavior is erratic and often careless. There are frequent faerie collisions, though never fatalities, this being the afterlife after all. I wonder at their purpose, though they mostly go about their own business, it seems a strange flaw in the ecosystem.  Like fleas. Only they are much prettier. And also not itchy.

We graze for morsels hiding in the grass.  They are abundant and always fresh. No two taste or smell exactly the same: manna from heaven.

Seems woodchucks get to heaven also, which is excellent good luck, because in truth, it would be a long wait with no battles or onslaughts or chases. If I could find a tiny dragon or two I would be elated, as that would lead to great sport.  I have not seen any yet, although a giant fat cat told me that he has seen a small flock of dragons recently and they are excellent good fun to rile up and run after. But his brain seemed a little addled and I wonder if he has confused dragons with a small flock of canaries congregating in the area.
The sun is never too warm.  The rain is never too cold. I can change the length of my coat at will, a neat trick.  Today I am shaggy, as it was misting and cool.

I am so full! Full of joy, full of food, full of something there are no words for in your mortal spaces.
From here I see the weights humans carry with renewed clarity.   Some like small packages or handbags, others like boulders, giant boxes, heavy backpacks.  Some pull carts laden with the weight of their living.
I can see that Hers is heavier today. Of course it must be, I am not there to help her carry it, though Nessarose tries her hardest. But there are many furry angels on earth, and when one leaves for the bridge others are duty bound to step into the breach. I am jealous as I am grateful.

I am full: full of incandescent memory.  I fear I am radioactive I glow so brightly from within.  She will see. She will know. I am brighter than the stars, more constant.

Love love love love love love love love. Someone said that once on television, I never caught his name...

I have only one regret.  I hope that spring will not forever be for Her a season of sadness.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die. “ - Mary Elizabeth Frye