"Sing, Cissie!"

In the short six months that both our ten year old grey girls, Cissie and Josie lived with us, they became friends. I don’t mean snuggle-on-the-couch friends or romp-and-run friends. Josie’s “noble queen” outlook on life would brook no such nonsense. Cissie’s stubborn independent streak didn’t include outright affection. Neither would admit they needed or enjoyed each other but their connection was clear to me.

They kept track of one another. One rarely went out the dog door that the other didn’t follow. They took turns leading the forays around the back yard. In the summer, their sunny napping spots were never far apart. Theirs was a nonchalant togetherness. They were like a pair of comfortable old shoes – each completed the other.

Then in September 2001, Josie became desperately ill and was diagnosed with liver cancer; she succumbed to it on October 27. The morning of her last day it was clear to me that she’d had enough. She and I went to the park alone for one last slow walk. She sniffed all the usual places, marked them like always, we lay on the grass for a while and gazed at the blue sky, and then we took our last ride together to Dr. Patty’s office. I held Josie in my arms on a fleece pad as she very peacefully released her last breath. The loneliest feeling in the world is walking out of the vet’s office with your broken heart and an old friend’s collar in your hand.

When I got home, Cissie met me at the door and her nose went right to the collar I was carrying. She focused those liquid black eyes on my face and the pain in them matched my own. I sat down on the floor, gathered her into my arms and sobbed as I told her Josie was gone.

These moments were the only time I ever felt need from Cissie. She was filled with the same pain I was feeling and she needed a way to release it. Intuitively, I put my head back and began to howl. Any other time I’d have laughed at the look on her face. It took only moments before she pointed her nose heavenward and took up the lament for Josie. We howled together until we were both hoarse, then Cissie, Buddy and I all got in the car and, drove to a nearby trailhead for a long walk up into the mountains.

Later that evening, Cissie sidled up to the couch where I was sitting. She again looked me directly in the eye and let out a low rumble in her throat. I said, “Sing, Cissie!” That’s all it took.

From that day on, those two words, “Sing, Cissie!” were her cue. But Cissie, that free spirit, didn’t only sing when she was asked. She quickly began singing any darn time she felt like it. First we’d hear several seconds of a low grumble, her version of tuning up, and then she would launch into a song of indeterminate length. And once that first note was out of her mouth there was no stopping her until the last note was sounded. All you could do was be patient. We could count on her breaking into song at least once during social get-togethers, or when we were on the phone, or occasionally in the wee hours of the morning. It was annoying. It was charming. It was Cissie.

Grief is a great creative force. It has been inspiring artists since the beginning of time. So it was with our sassy little brindle girl. It was grief that gave Cissie voice. It was song that healed her brokenness. It was joy that kept her singing all the rest of her days.