Diamonds on a Desert Island

Even on a day like today, he's limping around the yard burying the rawhide bone. The backyard has become a minefield of sinkholes and upturned dirt.

He never eats the bones. As he's gotten older, his holes have become more shallow; with just a light flick of a foot, I found many a bone half decomposed by worms and bugs.

What a bewildering beast who gingerly takes the fresh rawhide bone and buries it in the ground. Poor fool! He never remembers where he buries them, or maybe he simply is waiting for the right day to unearth his bounty. Maybe, in his mind, the bones are like wine: better aged after a few years.

Even on a day like today, in his thirteenth year, his debilitated legs carried him out of the kitchen and into the yard to bury his bone. From the kitchen window, he excitedly hobbles as if he has a ten-pound sand bag hanging from one side. He is slower for sure, but when he receives the bone, his ears and eyes look as they did when he was younger. For once, I genuinely hoped he would eat the bone, but like always, he buried it somewhere on the side of house, saving it for an undetermined day worth celebrating.

It's 10:30. With a jingle of my keys, he moseys around side of the house to meet me in the front near the Jeep. Fresh from burying his bone, his paws track dirt from the backyard and leave little mounds of brown on the white driveway. After knocking some of the dirt from the webbing on his paws, I smelled my fingers, as I always do after I play with him—the smell of gardening and the smell of Fritos.

The step up into the car has been too high for years, so I lifted him up, sacredly feeling the lump near the border of white and black fur on his chest. Of course, it's still there.

On the way, we passed his park where we would meet other dogs in the neighborhood. We passed the clubhouse pool where I let him swim when no one is looking. We pass the Jack-in-the-Box parking lot where I picked him out from a breeder who drove down from Oregon. With him, life seems to be measured in events we've done together, not years.

On the cold metal table, she shaves a small acre of his fur away. She dabs the area with alcohol to prevent infection; she must have done this out of habit. It's 11:10. I put my nose and upper lip on his face, just between his eyes. I held his ears between the circles of my index fingers and thumbs. With my palms, I mashed his cheek skin over his eyes and whispered, “Don't look.”

As the cold chill coursed through his veins and blinded by his own skin, I imagine he saw his bones, stored for a tomorrow—all the time and potential in the world to unearth his life's work.