It has been 7 days since our sweet Jasper left us. Jasper, the 13 year-old Labrador—”our first child”—went with the angels in the most peaceful way last week with all of us at his side. There is now a hole in this house, and on our morning walks. Every stone, every thicket and alder along the creek remembers his name, if not his touch. To be sure, he is around us everywhere now, but I can’t help harboring a desire for the earthly feel of his silky fur, to catch that subtle prismatic affect of sunlight on his black coat as it makes those minuscule reflections of green, red and blue color, or that sideways glance of his (usually asking something akin to, “can I keep this bone?”) or that deep, insistent pressure of him leaning against my leg before sliding down into the “belly rub position”. In the months leading up to his departure, the cancer in his leg 
eroded not only the bone and range of motion in his wrist, but the ability to participate in our regular walks. It killed me as much as it must have wounded him not to go on our jaunts; his excitement for going never waned—only his body’s ability to follow along held him back. Jasper would look with longing eyes if he caught a glimpse of us sneaking out the back door for a morning meander with Casey. At other times, he would come regardless—bounding along with a puppy-like zeal, albeit with a limping gait. When he did manage to come, we would shorten the distance of our strolls and maximize the thoroughness of our investigations with eyes and noses. Even though the walk still hurt him, it was important that he risk injury, in my mind, to preserve his mind and leaven his spirit.
On the day the vet was to come, we drove Jasper the 0.2 miles up the driveway along our ‘usual route’ to simply wander in our favored haunts, doing nothing but being together for as long as time would allow. We walked home from that outing so slowly, gingerly, down the driveway and gave thanks every last inch of it. I watched him with such joy and heartache as he made painful steps through the skiff of fresh snow—leaving a thin, 
sweeping drag mark with his front toe the entire way. To say it wasn’t hard that next morning to walk that way with Casey and see his last imprints still embossed upon the white, would be a lie. He was still there, so close, almost touchable. I laid my fingers into the frozen tracks that he left behind, trying to close that gulf that had just opened between us. In doing so, I thought back to the small plaster cast of his track sitting upon the shelf in the studio—that tiny imprint preserved in the white stone comprised of little puppy toes and pads made when he was only 8-weeks old. It was made 13 years ago today that it was made, per the inscription on its back, “Jasper 11/18/04”. His mark still remains. Although, these tracks in the snow will fade, the toe pads, the drag marks and all, the impact he made upon this family will endure forever. GB
