Boz

When you live a long time, you stop worrying and waiting for the buzzards to circle. The notion of death not being an end but just a transition is comforting and a source of constant curiosity.

A few days after the death of my Colombian husband, a large and very friendly stray dog wandered into my yard. This was not an unusual occurrence in my rural, country town so I made sure he was fed and had cool water to drink in the late summer heat. I named him Boz.

At dusk, we began a ritual of having a porch-sit in what passed for an evening breeze. His big eyes never left mine as I would softly talk to him about my loss. He would tilt his head if I began to cry. He put his chin on my knee until the sad moment faded.

As the din of crickets signaled the end of the day, Boz would rise and begin to walk to his favorite sleeping place under my shed. I don’t know when I first noticed that his stride had a gentle cadence and delicate rhythm. It was smooth and sexy like a Samba in Bogotá.

Without a fence or chain, he knew he was free to roam the country woods and riverfront. He was a traveler but stayed near to me until he sensed I could face my grief. Or-was it something else?