I've Seen Fire And I've Seen Rain

I open the garage door as I pull into the driveway at my parent's house. (Yes, I have a garage door opener for their house. Now shut up, I'm being serious here.) The sequence of sounds always begins with that one, the whirring sound of the garage door opening. I get out of the car and close the door. Thump. Then, my own footsteps as I walk through the garage, followed by the sound of the door to the house as I open it; it's the squeaking sound of rubber scraping against the door jam. The house's alarm system announces my presence with three short beeps, and then...

Nothing.

I should be used to it by now, but it still hits me like a glass of ice water to the face. The glass has gotten smaller with time, to be sure. It's been over two and a half years now. September 10, 2003 8:21 AM. That's when that last sound stopped. The sound of her collar jingling as she ran to the door to greet me.

I've heard that Beethoven's father used to wake him up by playing all of the notes of a scale on the piano except for the last one. Try as he might, Beethoven (or was it Mozart?) couldn't bring himself to sleep until he had heard that last note. Something about the incompleteness of it made him toss and turn until, finally, he got out of bed and went to the piano and hit that last key.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing in common with Beethoven. Still, I can relate to being upset by the incompleteness. I want to hear that last note...

I went to my folks house a couple of weeks ago to pick up my father for a trip to Key West. I didn't go there for a reminder. I didn't go there to miss my puppy. She was 12 when she went, but she was always my puppy. The sweetest golden retriever there ever was, I guarantee it.