The Last Time Came Too Soon
Goodbye To Bowie, Who Left Us Too Early
I read the text from Meg, our daughter, and collapsed on the inside like weathered scaffolding. “Bowie is likely dying,” she wrote, “and only has a few days left.”
I’m not talking about David Bowie, who turned the planet earth blue in early 2016, when he left us far too soon. This is about a different Bowie, one of his namesakes. There are a lot of dogs named Bowie. My grandpuppy was one of them. He also left us far too soon.
I visited with Bowie the day I received the text, when we took our grandson home. Bowie was lying on the bed in the master bedroom. I sat with him for a while, stroking his cheeks and chin, scratching his ears, telling him how much he was loved. He was too weak to lift his head, but still found a way to lick my hand. I vowed to visit him again the next day, but that evening was the last time I saw him.
When the last time was our last time
If only then I knew
Bowie was my third grandpuppy, following the cerebral Roxy and the effervescent Trixie. I was with Meg and Clinton when they adopted Bowie after meeting him at a showing by the Baby Animal Rescue Koalition (BARK). He was an adorable black furball, bright-eyed and engaged, with a calm demeanor. He placed his head on my shoulder as I held him.
It often seems we don’t choose our dogs as much as they choose us. That’s how we wound up with Zoey. As Kris and Meg were walking through PACC, looking for a potential replacement for our beloved Penny, a spunky, smiling, and charismatic mutt attracted their attention. PACC personnel moved her to the greeting area, where Clinton and I joined them. I sat down and the amiable mutt placed her front paws on my lap and looked me in the eye. We took her home with us.
We met Bowie, whom the BARK people were calling “Fritz,” in the fall of 2017. Coincidentally, my late Mother-in-law’s nickname was Fritz. The name was an omen, but we had to change it. To what? A day or two later the name became obvious. The little pup called “Fritz” would be named Bowie, after the singer.
My favorite memory of Bowie was in a video that Clinton recorded and placed online during the Covid pandemic. Clinton was playing the guitar as Bowie sat and watched. Clinton is a gifted musician and his music was enchanting, but the star of the video was Bowie. He sat attentively, watching Clinton, never moving, never shifting his gaze. It was the kind of adoration that can only emanate from a dog.
“The dog is a gentleman,” wrote Mark Twain in 1899, “I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.” I share his wish. Maybe I’ll run into him there, he with his dogs and me with mine. If there is a heaven for dogs, it won’t be wanting for angels.
Bowie showed his loyalty and responsibility during hikes. He liked to be first in line, but always looked back to make sure everybody was accounted for. He was alert and protective. He also loved to swim. Meg and Clinton have a backyard pool, and Bowie, after some coaxing, discovered the bliss of a cool dip in Tucson’s unforgiving summer. He would jump in after balls, bring them back to us, then pause by the pool’s edge until we tossed them in again. Whenever I visited and Bowie was not wearing his collar, I knew he’d been swimming.
Bowie was also a cuddler. He would sometimes come over to me while I was sitting on the couch, rise up and put his paws on my shoulders, and give me a big kiss while I hugged him. Our house and dog-sitter, Alex, once texted me while he was watching Bowie and Zoey during a vacation. “He’s spooning me!” he said.
Bowie was a big strong, bundle of love who always greeted us when we arrived and showed off his toys. But he was not there to greet us last Friday evening. He was on the bed, dying, unable to move, barely engaged. I stayed as long as I could, gave him a kiss, and said “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bowie didn’t have a tomorrow.
I miss him and wanted to let you know what a great dog he was.
When the last time was our last time
If only then I knew
The last time was our last time; would’ve told you that the last time comes too soon
When the last time was our last time; should’ve told you that the last time comes too soon
(Lyrics from “Goodbye Mr. Blue” by Father John Misty)