Maverick, the immortal

Tennis balls.  They were always on his mind.  Tennis balls, soaring over a concourse of green fescue, stretching into infinity; arching across the sky like lemon suns.  He wanted to be chasing them, in great loping strides, as if he really was the thoroughbred he imagined himself to be, instead of a mere black lab.

Maverick was obsidian and tiffany, reckless and reliable, lovable and laughable.  Captured on thousands of megabytes - cd's, flash drives, hard drives, hearts.   A backdrop to the chronicles of our lives - of boyhood and brotherhood, happiness and hope, joy and grief. 

In recent years, Maverick spent long hours sleeping, whimpering and twitching as if he were trying to escape from his seat in the dream audience and move back on to the stage.   Majestic head supported on his front paws, he watched his adventures as they flickered on the screen behind his velvet eyes.

And they must have been glorious. Cascades of water filling the screen as he thrashed into a freezing trout stream or a summer lake.  Squirrels and birds flinging themselves into trees and sky, just out of reach of the great hunter, scurrying up giant oaks or shedding feathers in panic as they fled off camera for their lives. 

Proud and lean, muscled like an olympic athlete.  Loving and unafraid.

He’d lay there in the kitchen or near the piano, sometimes curled up with the cat.  Bathed in summer sun or long winter shadows, thinking of twisting airborne catches, gazelle-like turns, turf-tearing stops on all fours.  Quick snaps and over the shoulder catches.  Spittle flying, head shaking, eyes dancing.  All powered by an adonyus soul of limitless energy.

And oh, the food in those memories.  Apple pies and take-out packages mistakenly left on countertops. Christmas cookies, beautifully handcrafted with jellied centers and sprinkles and bright frosting, waiting for the cookie exchange.  Gourmet dinners left by friends during a nap.  And a cornucopic menu from the pantry - peanut butter, pasta, cereal, potato chips. And, occasionally, kitty litter.

Although Maverick was "rescued" from the shelter, he was really just waiting for Kirk to pick him up, for he was a soul born to be with us. 

One summer afternoon not so long ago, the boys and I took Maverick to the park where we grew up.  He dragged us down the hill with uncontrollable excitement; careening and flying as if we were a horse-drawn fire truck headed toward a blaze.  He tore through the carpet of dandelions and cactus-like weeds and across to the dusty baseball diamond.  We unleashed him and flung tennis balls across the summer sky until our arms hurt.  We laughed and high fived and hugged each other as we watched the magnificent Maverick in all his glory.  It was an unforgettable day.

The last time I saw Maverick, he was looking through the lower half of the screen door as I walked up to the house.  He was shifting from side to side, and I knew what he meant.  I always did.

On the next step of his journey, he had no leash, no collar.  He was taking great deep breaths and the muscles rippled under his shiny ebony coat as he strode toward the gates of heaven.  When the gates were flung open, welcoming him home, thousands of bright yellow tennis balls poured out, showering him with love and expectancy.

We'll miss you, Maverick.

*****