Final Gift

She walked slowly behind the man and the dog, the dog trotting through the tall grass. The cold autumn wind cut through the cloth of her worn barn jacket, and she pulled the collar up with bent fingers. She looked forward; the man and the dog were gone from sight. Stiffly she climbed the small hill and looked out over the dry field. Up ahead the man knelt by the dog, both of them searching the grass for something that she could not see.
By the time she reached them, the man had shooed the dog away and stood , cupping something in his hands. She looked in, and saw the torn body of a small ground squirrel, still quivering.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “ I tried to stop her, but she’s a hunting dog, and dogs hunt...” his voice trailed off as he looked in her eyes.
“I know, dear. Let me hold it.”
The animal shivered as she took it from her husband’s hands and cradled it against her coat. She stroked the fur where it wasn’t bloody, and for a moment, the squirrel opened its eyes and looked into hers. Then it sighed, shuddered, and was still.
“Would you like me to bury it?” he asked. She nodded, and he pulled a battered screwdriver from one of his coat pockets and began to tear a hole in the prairie sod. Together they tucked the body into the hole and patted the dirt down. She wiped her hands on the front of her trousers and stood. She leaned toward the man and placed her hand on his cheek.
“Your face is cold, hon. Let’s go in.”
He whistled to the dog, and the three headed toward home. From habit she tucked her hands in her pockets, to keep the cold from seeping into sore knuckles, but strangely, they were warm.

The dogs were their children. For 52 years they had shared bed and home, but not children. Instead, there had been a long line of well-bred, well-trained hunting dogs. He was renowned for his training, and the dogs from his line were sought after for hunting and for show. The pictures of his champions adorned the walls of the den.
If the den was his place, the studio was hers. Light flooded in from all directions, and her paintings covered every bit of wall. The misty, ethereal woodland scenes reflected the forest that covered the back edge of their property. The room used to be filled with easels, the smell of turpentine and oils, but now served merely as a gallery. The hands that once created the art were now crabbed and stiff.
In the kitchen, they sat together with steaming mugs.
“We need to talk about the dog.” he said without looking at her. “She’s getting old.”
“So am I. What do you plan to do with me?” They grinned at each other, silently agreeing to put it off one more day.
That night, after he had fallen asleep, she went into her studio. Her hands were warm, and tingled slightly. Quickly, while she still had the courage, she pulled out a charcoal pencil and sketchbook. A few minutes later she turned out the light, and went to bed. There in the moonlight lay the open sketchbook, a delicate drawing of the ground squirrel on the page.
He found the sketch, but asked no questions. Instead, he took her hands in to his gnarled and wrinkled ones and kissed the palms.

The dog refused to eat, and would not move from her bed by the fireplace.
“Soon, do you think?” he asked.
“I’ll stay with her” she replied.
He nodded approval, and wiped an eye. “She wants you with her.”
The old dog suddenly sat up, leaned against the woman and sighed. The watery brown eyes looked up at the woman, and their gaze met and held. A long moment later the dog coughed, sighed again and was still.

She painted the dog, not as old and arthritic as she had been, but young, glossy and vibrant. It was all there, the bearing, the grace, the personality, the champion she had been. He framed it and hung it in his den where he could see it from his chair.
“Thank you for giving her back to me.” he said as he held her to him.

The winter had been long and bitter, and not kind to old souls and bodies. He could barely get up from his chair, and spent long hours dozing. She brought him a cup of tea, waking him gently. He looked at her for a long moment.
“Will you paint me?”
With tears in her eyes she nodded her assent.

The next day she went into their bedroom carrying a canvas draped in cloth and set it against the wall. She woke him, and returned with a tray and two mugs. They sipped the steaming coffee together without speaking. Finally she said,
“It’s finished.”
He sat still for a moment. “I’m ready now.”
She pulled back part of the cloth. He could see himself in the painting, young and strong, standing on top of the knoll where they had built their home. His boot was on a spade, driving it into the soil for the foundation to come.
“Do you want to see the rest?” He smiled and nodded. She let the cloth fall. Next to the young man stood a beautiful woman, smiling at her husband.
“Do you remember? That was such a good day.”
“It was a good life. Come here, woman.”
She climbed into bed next to him, tucked herself into his arms and closed her eyes. He kissed the top of her head and smiled. They sighed and grew still.