a prayer for nomad

Some of the unique residents that have lived in my little home town are not even human, and are long remembered after they are gone. One such resident, appropriately known as Nomad, took on the job as being the town dog. Nomad was a big husky – big mostly because she ate meals at home and at many of the neighbors’ homes. My daughter called her a couch dog – not because she spent time on a couch but because she was couch sized. She was a big, round love seat sort of a dog.

Nomad made it her business to check on everyone in the neighborhood but she had his favorites – my brother was one of them. Nomad worshiped my brother Ray and visited him several times each day hoping to get a puppy cookie in exchange for a dog kiss. She saw the good in Ray and didn’t try to make him quit drinking or smoking. She was a good listener and was satisfied to go for a walk in the woods where she would roll around in every mud puddle she could find. Nomad thought she was the guard dog and sat on the porch of my parent’s home or even inside at my brother’s feet. She was the “designated walker”. She waited for Ray to come out of the bar where he spends a lot of his time, and then would walk him home.

When I visited my parents, Nomad always remembered me and would come and greet me. During one visit, I was staying in a little bunkhouse on the main street. When I was at my mom and dad's house, Nomad always showed up about the time I was ready to walk back up to my room. She would escort me up the hill and walk ahead of me, turning around often to see if I was coming and to give me her characteristic grin – I swear this dog knew how to grin. Her grin made me feel secure – it seemed to say “life is good in this small town and I am happy”. She would come in the room in and sniff around to make sure it was okay. When she was satisfied nothing or no one was hiding anywhere, she would drink from the bowl of water I offered her and walk back home or at least wherever she was calling home that night. When my mom moved to her new place and my father was reluctant to leave the old one, Nomad came over every night and stayed with my mom to make sure she was okay.

Nomad did have a home. Her family lived behind my parents and she belonged to one of the married children in the family. When her owner got divorced, they got joint custody of Nomad and for a while, she spent a week or two in another small town. She got so homesick, that these visits soon stopped. She wanted to be home with her people and have the freedom to wander where she wanted. Sje was free to wander town and surrounding woods and was never chained – she always came back from her travels.

When Nomad developed cancer the first time, a family practice physician at the small hospital in the next town paid for her surgery. Except for a stiff neck and a scar, Nomad would be good as new for another 6 years or so.

When I visited my parents one fall, Nomad was slowing down. I noticed she drank a lot more water and when I stroked her massive love seat fur, I could tell she had some bumps that should not be there. It seemed that her time was short, but it also seemed she was okay with it. She still would go for walks and give us that grin that said everything was okay and she had a good life. She didn’t seem to be in pain. She still made sure my brother came home from the bar okay and made the rounds with all of the neighbors. When I left my parents after that visit, I gave the couch dog an especially big hug. She just gave me that smile. I knew she wouldn’t be walking with me on my next visit.

I was sad when my mom called to say Nomad was sick. She was vomiting, and not eating. Finally my brother was called down to say goodbye to his friend. Ray lifted her into the car and her family took her to the vet. They decided that, if Nomad had cancer they would not treat her but would make sure she did not suffer. I am sure Nomad silently agreed to this plan. She may have even grinned his “I had a good life” grin.

My family and especially my brother were saddened by Nomad’s death. He and Nomad’s official human family had a wake – which consisted of getting drunk. This is pretty much what happens in a small town when someone dies, and I can’t say it is good or bad…. it just is. Nomad was buried that spring when the ground thawed enough to dig a grave. I like to think of Nomad the big couch of a dog, somewhere else happily romping with my old dog Bailey, smiling her town dog smile.

When I was home after my mom died, going through my mom's things, I found this picture of Nomad's grave. The back of the picture had this written on it:

Nomad's Burial Prayer

Dear God,

Creator of all things.

We want to thank you for a special dog Nomad

She gave a lot of people all the love, patience and understanding a dog could give

In Jesus' name, Amen

This may seem like a sad dog story, but in reality, it has many good lessons. We should all be like our dogs in our acceptance and our joy in simple things. Those of us who are lucky enough to have been smiled at by the dogs in our lives are better people for the experience, short that it is.