I told him he was a funny guy, whispered it in his ear. Julia says he was a clown, and that’s probably true, but I can’t help but feeling that a dog with a sense of humor is something else—it was his method of taking care, to keep our spirits up, we, his family, who all have a propensity towards profound darkness.
And now here I am, without him, in the dark. It’s still daytime, barely out of morning, the morning of his death, and yet I can feel it coming on: the long night of my life without him. Still, I have to tell you that I did not expect to feel the way I did at the moment of his death on the vet’s floor. I thought I had no faith, because I was going against my faith by putting him down. And then I realized that I knew that his consciousness, so pristine—my young boy, my healthy clown—would leave his lame body, his clouded mind, and he’d be free again.
So it is not a lack of faith; it’s a knowing. I told you how he would leap through the grass, taller than him: soon he’ll be flying, outwardly and inwardly. If you breathe him in he will enter your heart (he would appreciate it), and when you see a comical leaf, a funny wind, a laughable wave, it’ll be him, working to light up the darkness: sweet Scout.
Good journey, my funny, lovely boy.