Hanging Up the Leash

I screwed a hook into the wall of my office yesterday, over in the corner. Then I hung Ozma's leash on it.

This leash has been through…well, let me look at it. It has knots in it, from when the boys would take Oz outside while they were working on their cars. They'd tie the leash to a post, so she could be there with them.

The leash has mud on it, from all of our many, many swims. It's ground into the fabric of the leash now.
And the leash is dark with dried blood at more than one place. The blood came from Oz's stubborn love. She liked to grab the leash in her mouth and run with it, so I'd come along. She kept doing this right up till the end, even when the tumor got so large that she couldn't eat. She'd clamp down on the leash and take a leap forward, then cut back to a kind of trot. We'd job along until she could get the leash situated very far forward (pressing against the canines), or very far back, almost closing off her throat.

I tried not letting her bite the leash. It saddened and confused her, and she'd bite it anyway, chasing it around my body till she could get it.

She didn't like the taste of blood. If we hit a hard bump and the leash pulled tight, abrading the tumor, she'd bleed a bit, and I'd see her licking and tasting around it. But she loved the leash, loved me, and loved the sense of connection she seemed to get from biting the leash.

When folks would see us like that, they'd call out something like "Hey! Are you walking her, or is she walking you?" We got that in a dozen neighborhoods, from a score of people. I always answered something like "Well, we're still trying to decide that."We still are. The leash is waiting.

Greg