The Bookstore Bulletin II
My dog, my bookstore, and me.
We first got Riley on Christmas morning in 2012. It was the morning to best all Christmas mornings, especially when we found out that he was ours to keep. He acclimated smoothly to our mess of a family—four kids under the legal driving age and one rowdy two-year old Golden Retriever. I remember him being so playful. He was our first barker. Anytime the door would ring we plugged our eyes for the incumbent noisy reception. Him and Rosie literally melted into each other, the perfect older sister-little brother combo, though Rosie would always reign supreme as the canine queen of our household.
He was our love bug, our Christmas morning treasure, a golden curly fluff who complimented our family so well.
Bo came along just two short years later and almost completely overshadowed lithe Rosie and mini Riley. Within a year he outweighed us, an enormous love-monster who Riley nipped at in jealousy.
Riley was both the cleverest of the group and the most anxious. He’d never leave a bone unattended, especially if it was Bo’s, yet he shook whenever we took him in the car with us. His body convulsed in fear while Rosie looked expectantly out the window and Bo lounged, sprawled in the trunk.
He’d cower and bark at new faces and wait until no one was watching him before he’d dig into his food bowl. We’re not sure where this fear came from, especially because our other two dogs never spared a second worry. Maybe because of his size, as the smallest of the three. Though he seldom shrank from his larger siblings.
Riley lost Rosie when he was four, far too little time together. Riley and Bo found comfort in their brotherhood without missing a step. Riley assumed the dominant position in the pack, his younger brother absolutely oblivious. Until Bo, at eleven, weighed down by painful tumors in his abdomen, didn’t return home. In the wake of Bo’s loss, Riley’s changed.
He whimpers if you leave the room. He has accidents when home alone. We’ve reverted to using child gates to keep him from going upstairs.
Riley and I are alone this week, the rest of our family scattered across the country. He’s joined me at the bookstore.
Mostly he cowers under the bookshelves and counters, unsure about this new place. I can’t take two steps without him following me. My shadow follows me deep into the stacks to our Young Adult section in order to help a repeat customer, Dan, aged 12, find a new book from the hundreds he’s already devoured.
We find a book for him and Riley offers his head for soft pets. As we turn to leave, Dan’s mom whispers that this is Dan’s first time petting a dog since being bitten several months ago. Dan, too, has changed in the wake of loss. Riley cures his fear with a calm countenance.
A customer later the same day asks if Riley knows that Bo has died. I think so, I say. Did he ever see Bo’s corpse, she asks. Excuse me, I say. If dogs can smell the corpse of the deceased, it brings them closure, she says. I never knew that, I say.
Bo’s death was sudden. There was little chance we’d’ve had to bring Riley to him, especially after he was gone. I gingerly brought Bo’s old collar in front of Riley’s snout, hoping for some sign of recognition. None. The only sign we had that Riley even knew was his avoidance of the one ottoman in the living room where Bo slept. For over three months, Riley has not once sat upon the coveted ottoman. He does so only when overstimulated due to a brand new bone, his excitement casting a shadow over his grief.
We didn’t know Riley was deaf until Bo died. Bo could hear, and Riley, following Bo’s cues, responded. He relied on Bo’s hearing then, and now, I doubt he can even hear himself. At least he no longer barks when the doorbell rings.
The doorbell rang Christmas morning 2012, and there was no way I could’ve ever imagined what would be behind it. Thirteen years later, Riley is the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.
I selfishly want to hold onto him forever. He’s sewn my heart back together in the wake of so much loss this season, but I know his sister and brother will call him home soon.
I just hope he can hear how much I’ll miss him.
Until next time,
Kiera