My Dog Years: For Every Year I Walk Dogs, I Age 7

ALAS

"This is the sculpture garden."

His eyes scanned the beautiful landscape in front of us. The rolling green hills and collection of sculptures that blended in with the textures of the bushes and angles of the trees.

"I've spent a lot of time here but I'm not familiar with this side of the campus."

"Did you teach here?"

"No. My daughter was hospitalized here. She died here."

This piece of information was almost enough to stop me in my tracks. I forced myself to keep moving forward and not betray the shock and dismay I was feeling. I looked up at him not knowing what to say. He stared straight ahead, eyes glimmering behind his glasses. After a moment, he turned to face me and sighed wistfully.

"Alas."

I couldn't believe that of all places I could have suggested for our walk, I had brought him to the very place where he had suffered the biggest loss imaginable. As we marched along in silence past the ATM and vending machines in the commons where the concrete path turned to in laid red brick, I wondered why he hadn't made an alternative suggestion. Bunche Hall was just head of us. I recognized an opportunity to re-introduce polite conversation. I pointed to an open classroom where I had taken a fiction writing class.

"I had a class in there."

He lifted his head and smiled.

"What do you know? What kind of class?"

"A writing class."

"You don't say. I'm a writer too."

He looked at me with great interest.

"What are you working on?"

I went on to explain the class I had taken was a fiction course but that it hadn't been very productive because I didn't care for reading out loud. This made him laugh. I continued.

"Right now, I'm working on a piece on location extras. I'm trying to sell it to Premiere magazine or maybe the Calendar section of The Los Angeles Times."

He listened thoughtfully as I breezed through a summary of my story lead, my research and my sources. I looked over at Happy. It was hard to tell if she was enjoying herself at all. I turned my attention back to him.

"What about you?"

"My wife and I are Futurists. Right now, we're working on a book about homosexuality, gay marriage and the reconfiguration of the modern family."

His use of the word Futurists abruptly triggered my memory. This was Alvin Toffler, the author of Future Shock. I suddenly felt like an idiot for having said anything at all about my writing.

I realized we were edging closer to the hospital so I discretely suggested we turn around and head back. It was an uphill walk so we slowed our pace for Happy who struggled along.

"My daughter had a dog. When she was still at home with us, the dog laid at her feet in bed the whole time she was bedridden. She refused to leave her. When my daughter died, the dog became very depressed. We took her to the vet for tests and they couldn't find anything wrong with her. Everything checked out. She died not long after.

"I'm so sorry."

He looked at me with an excruciatingly sad, painful smile.

"I had my daughter's casket exhumed and we buried the dog with her. At least now they're together." I felt some relief in knowing this but I was still at a loss for words.