FOR THE LOVE OF DOG.
"I'm a little worried about Wendell," I told Hannah when she woke up, "I'm sure he's fine, but he's not back yet."And that was the first time I ever lied to my wife, because to be honest, I wasn't sure he was fine. I had awoken to the sound of a dog or coyote fight at some late hour, and hadn't heard Wendell since. If he was hurt, he'd probably limped into the woods to hide. If he was dead... well, I didn't want to think about that, even if it was all I could think about.Death is a part of life I've come to terms with and, through farming, even grown to admire. But I was realizing death was not a part of love I was able to process, or even willing to accept. In life, death replenishes. As Baudelaire said, death renders unto nature a hundred times what it takes from it. Death does not do the same for love. Life blossoms from death. Love blossoms from life.For as many times as I've been frustrated with Wendell, annoyed, embarrassed or even hurt by him, I found myself unable, in any fashion, to deal with the idea of his death. I made myself ill thinking about it—thinking about life without my dog, my buddy, my goof. I was not comforted by the fertility his giant body would be lending to the earth, I was haunted by the thought of not seeing him every morning, sleepy-eyed, sleepy bear. I am human and thus blessed and cursed with compassion. Compassion is what made me care for Wendell in the first place, to fall in love with him, but it was also the thing that had me so nervous that morning, pacing around the house with my eyes welling up, a grown man praying his grown puppy was okay."I'm going to go look for him," I finally mumbled, then walked swiftly out of the house and down the driveway, mentally preparing myself for what I might find. But when I got to the road, I looked over and saw a soaking wet Wendell, unharmed, exhausted from his night of work and play, happy and alive as could be, coming home for breakfast.And as he walked by me I could feel my affection for him growing. He'd scared me half to death, and it made me love him twice as much—such is the math of love, I suppose.- Jesse.