saying goodbye

the weekend's distance:  5.5 miles
on the iPod:  "city of blinding lights"  -- U2


I spent the better part of last week in an emotional haze.  Knowing for some time that it was coming, and after considerable mental preparation, I still found myself completely unprepared.  I was certain that it was something I wanted to experience on my own, even though friends and family, including Mrs. Pugh, readily volunteered to be there when it happened.  And on Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend it became distinctly clear that the beginning of the end was on hand.  Four days later, at noon on Tuesday, I said goodbye to Abe Lincoln, my constant companion and most loving little friend for the last 15 years.  I'm still saying goodbye today.

As I've written so many times over the years, I grew up in the best family imaginable, with parents that provided for my every single need.  But we didn't have pets.  This wasn't a point of contention with my sister and I, but it did serve us both to get dogs as soon as we moved off campus at the U of A.  Susan was first with a cocker spaniel named Maggie, whom years later would affectionately become known as Fat Maggie.  I hadn't lived off campus for more than a year or so when, on a whim, I stopped at the flat bed truck of a farmer giving away puppies in the Wal-Mart parking lot.  The litter of labrador retriever mutts instantly won me over and I took the only yellow one, mixed in with his black and brown siblings.  He was by far and away the runt of the litter, but I didn't care.  I liked him and he needed me, or maybe it was the other way around.  Regardless, a friendship unlike any other was born on that sunny afternoon in May.


With his puppy breath, he was the sweetest little dog that I had ever seen.  His personality and face exuded a friendly and playful affect that was genuine and honest.  That was my very first impression of him, that all he wanted to do in life was be sweet and loving to everybody, but particularly me.  We bonded instantly.  He was constantly by my side, following me around without a leash, but rather a frisbee in his mouth, ready for me to throw it so that he could bound after it and grab it mid-air, returning to my feet and hoping for another round.  And, of course, I did.  I threw frisbees for him more times that I could ever count.  On hot summer evenings, he would ride in the passenger seat of my Jeep Wrangler, sitting up patiently and enjoying the breeze, seemingly knowing that where ever I was was heading, he was going, too.


There are tons of stories about Abe Lincoln:  he got thrown of out a truck on the way home from Devil's Den, he ate an entire bowl of Peanut M+M's from the coffee table in the middle of a beer party, he figured out how to open the front door so that he could lounge in the front yard while I was at work, he woke up me and my buddies Jason and Kyle in the middle of the night when our rental house caught on fire, and his annual Christmas cards are the stuff of legend.  What made him special to me, however, was his unconditional love and companionship from day one.  He truly was my best friend.


But over the years he began to show his age.  The frisbee became something to carry as opposed to a catchable object.  Getting around the house became a labored chore.  Sometimes moving from a supine position to being upright was next to impossible.  My friend was growing old and all I could do was love and support him while I watched it slowly happen.  Medication, including a weekly injection that I learned to give him, seemed to help.  But it was only a temporary fix, as his health and ability continued to deteriorate, and the meds didn't work as well as they once did.  Close friends told me I would know when it was "time", but for months I secretly hoped I would come home one day and find him gone and finally at peace.  That never happened.


My friends were right -- I did know when it was "time", and like so many things in life, looking back on it I think that it was a "god thing", as my mother would say, that it happened over a holiday weekend.  It gave me a few final days to come to terms with the compassionate and loving end to Abe Lincoln's journey.  I decided on that Friday afternoon that it was time.  


I stayed with him throughout the entire process -- not being there wasn't an option.  I had determined months ago that, regardless of how difficult it would be, I would be holding him in my arms until he was gone.  He was calm and at peace, and I was able to keep my emotions relatively in check, though tears were uncontrollable.  As soon as the vet confirmed that he was gone, I gently kissed his head one final time, told him that I loved him, and walked out.  I never looked back.  


The rest of that day, and the entire week for that matter, truly is a blur.  I drove out to the Buffalo River to contemplate what had just happened.  I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about old friends, listening to Son Volt and R.E.M., and crying.  I didn't want to talk to anybody, though countless people reached out with texts and phone calls, cards and wall posts.  My house was an empty, quiet shell, and my thoughts were with Abe.  The stormy, rainy nights seemed to fit perfectly.  There were bright moments as well, as flashes of fun memories made me smile and laugh.  But mostly I subsided in a place of emotion and mourning for what had happened, for the end of an amazing life.  


And then a really great guy, his name is Todd, told me that I should do whatever I need to in order to say goodbye to my friend.  I think it was his way of saying that grieving is okay and that we all experience it in different ways, but for whatever reason it resonated with me and I instantaneously knew what I needed to do.  


I needed to run.


In the middle of a self-induced running hiatus because of plantar fasciitis that i've been experiencing since before the Nashville Marathon, I hadn't run in 15 days.  That is by far the longest time i've gone without running in the last three and a half years.  Every single plan for dealing with plantar will say the most important thing to do is to stop running for as long as possible.  And of course, that's absolutely the last thing that a distance runner wants to do.  But with the pain getting to be relatively unbearable, and with three distance races left in 2012, including the New York City Marathon, I'm damned and determined to rest long enough to knock it out.  


Sometimes, however, the best laid plans have to be put aside, and this was one of those times.  I was ready to come out of the haze and experience some normalcy again, to deal with the pain of life in the only way I knew how.  Lacing up in the middle of the afternoon, the sun was shaded by a partly cloudy sky, but the temperature and humidity were in full force as I ran solo around Lake Fayetteville.  I can't say that I didn't experience some pretty raw emotions, but the run was incredibly therapeutic for my soul.  I pushed hard and fast, stopping only to turn around at the out-and-back point of my route.  I remembered things about Abe that I hadn't thought of in years, and I prayed prayers of thanks for his companionship in my life for the last 15 years.  It was the best run I've had in a very long time.


I know that there will be more ups and downs, as saying goodbye is a continual process, but I left everything out there on the trail.  I let it all go.  That run served as my farewell to my friend, my dog, my sweet little Abe.  I'll continue to run and I won't ever forget him.  Ever.