Chapter 15
We picked up Barysh from boarding as soon as we arrived back in Wiesbaden and were told he hadn’t eaten in two days.
The Hundehotel Jürgen veterinarian had checked him but hadn’t found anything wrong—other than old age—so they didn’t call us.
We took him to our regular vet, and she said his vitals were weaker than normal. “Maybe it is time to let go, yes?”
I’d heard that so many times that the words didn’t really have an impact on me anymore. But this was the first time I was hearing it from a professional. My lungs emptied. Was that the end of denial? Were our days together numbered?
Claus squeezed the edge of my shoulders, the gentle pressure keeping me together.
“We could help.” Dr. Joel’s voice was kind but matter-of-fact.
My words stuck around the lump in my throat. “We’ll just take him home.” Looking at Barysh, helpless on the exam table, I forced a smile. His slim and bony hips didn’t match the strong torso or the intensity of the get-me-away-from-the-vet expression. Nothing new there—he’d never liked vets. But one thing was new: a hint of affliction in his eyes.
Back at the apartment, I couldn’t get Barysh to eat anything either.
“Are you sure you want me to go?” Claus asked after getting us settled in the apartment.
“I’m sure.” While in Prague, I’d received an e-mail saying the Thunderbird had arrived. We’d planned to travel the ten hours to the North Sea port of Bremerhaven together to pick it up, but with Barysh not well, that was no longer a viable idea. Claus had arranged for a special power of attorney so he could handle the car situation for me.
“I’ll be home by dinnertime tomorrow,” he said before taking Barysh’s head into his hands and giving him little Eskimo kisses. “When I get back, we will take you on a picnic by the river—your favorite, yes?” He hugged his head and petted him.
My heart squeezed at the sight. Please don’t die while Claus is gone.
Two days later, we finished moving my things to the suite and took Barysh to our Rüdesheim spot, as promised.
The ride and being back in the Thunderbird and by the river must have opened his appetite at last. He ate grilled chicken breast and fresh cheese from our salad and tried a fine German Riesling from the palm of my hand before scooting to the sunflower patch for a nap.
Summer was officially starting in three days, and the sunflowers were a foot taller than me and ready to bloom.
“I want to take some seeds home to plant at Mom’s.” My fingertips brushed against the brown center of the tallest sunflower.
“We will wait for the right season, and I’ll teach you to harvest.” Claus sat on our blanket and closed his eyes.
Joining him, I rested my head on his lap and watched a procession of milk-white clouds roll by to the rhythm of the lazy warm breeze as we reminisced about the trip to the Czech Republic.
When Barysh woke up, we had an improvised photo shoot. We took pictures of him among the sunflowers, of him with the Rhine, and of him in the middle of the vineyard as he sniffed tiny grapes that were still deep green and hard to the touch.
Claus grabbed the camera and motioned for me to get in the shot. He walked up the hill past us so he could frame the river and the sunflower patch in the photo too.
I rode home holding on to Barysh while enjoying the wind by his side. As I scratched his ears, he barked at the wind before looking at me. Is that a thank you? I smiled at my friend. Of course it is.
At night, Claus put Barysh on the bed with us to watch a movie. I had already framed the sunflower patch picture and placed it on the side table.
We started watching Last Holiday, and as Queen Latifah turned the Czech spa city of Karlovy Vary upside down, enjoying what she thought were the last days of her life, I remembered poor Ms. Jackie who didn’t get to go there.
My eyes abandoned the TV and rested on the New Testament she’d left for me and that now shared the table with the new picture frame. My grace is sufficient for thee, I’d read, not really sure what grace was—His or anybody’s. It was more than feeling at peace at a church, wasn’t it?
Whatever it was, I wanted it. Nothing had ever been sufficient for me in my life. Ballet achievements were never sufficient. Great boyfriends were not sufficient. Living in Europe was cool but not really sufficient. How could God’s grace be sufficient? That was a promise I had to look into.
I wanted something sufficient. And I had a feeling I’d need something sufficient to get me through saying goodbye to Barysh. He snuggled against my feet. Don’t die. Not yet. I tightened my lips, fighting back tears, and watched him drift off to sleep before turning my attention back to the movie and to Claus.
In the morning, Barysh didn’t wake up. He was warm in bed, looking as comfortable as ever, but nothing moved. I tried to pick up his head, but the limpness made me stop in dismay. That limpness came to define death to me who had known no death. It was like lifting a heavy comforter. There was nothing there.
He was gone.
Barysh was gone.
Claus woke up, his lips parting at the sight of us.
Tears were streaming down my face, but no words came out of my mouth. I lay next to Barysh, and ran my fingers through his thick fur, missing the feel of his rhythmic breathing. My hand touched his face and caressed his forehead as I longed for one more look into his sweet brown eyes.
Claus was busy around us. Was he asking me something? What was he saying? He knelt by the bed, his tears steady and quiet like mine. He held my hand and touched Barysh’s head to form a circle. And there we stayed for probably close to an hour, until I was able to say something and do something.
At first, I thought of arranging to cremate him so we could spread some of the ashes in Germany and some back home, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it wasn’t right for us.
A burial in Germany didn’t make sense, but it felt right. Barysh would have liked a spot by the vines and the river, so Claus started making calls.
He found a small animal cemetery near Sankt Goar, an hour from Rüdesheim. The owners swore it would be there for years to come. Many of the little graves had been there for almost two hundred years.
We wrapped Barysh in a blanket like a baby, put him on the backseat of the Mercedes, and headed to the river again.
I stepped out of the car and went straight to the burial grounds. The place was well kept and the view beautiful, similar to the one from our picnic spot. I stood there clutching a small bag with some of Barysh’s things and remembered our many adventures.
My favorite ones of all were from our first months together. I smiled as I remembered when I started taking him to doggie daycare. His old family had just moved to Germany, and he was being destructive when I wasn’t home, so I wanted to find a way for him to let loose some of his energy.
The daycare had several shallow pools for the dogs to cool off, but Barysh didn’t care for the water. Any other dog would just have stayed away, but not my dog. He went to the muddy puddles his friends created when water splashed out of the pools, backed into it, and kicked mud on all the other dogs.
My favorite memory was from obedience training—or rather, disobedience training. We didn’t learn anything, couldn’t do anything, and were finally asked to drop out of the class. So what if he didn’t get the point of heeling? Quite frankly, I didn’t either.
Then there was the time he wouldn’t let me get out the door. He’d planted himself between me and the door and growled at me for the first and only time ever. Later that night, a police officer came by the building asking residents if we’d seen anything suspicious—two neighbors had reported a strange man roaming the hallways. Brave Barysh. Smart dog.
And now Germany. He’d been with me through so much. How could I ever get on without him?
Claus’ hand on my shoulder startled me. I turned around and noticed he’d been crying too. It was time. We walked toward Barysh’s tiny grave.
Barysh’s body looked fragile in Claus’ arms, and I touched the soft fur of his face one more time before placing a copy of our photo by his head and covering his face. My shoulders shook and my heart hurt, but he was so much better off now.
Claus eased the wrapped body into the grave, and I put his favorite yellow rubber football by his side before touching his body one last time.
The owners of the cemetery were helping with the burial. The wife handed Claus a giant sunflower—possibly the first to blossom on the Rhine that year. Claus placed it on Barysh and then grabbed the shovel.
Turning to look at the Rhine River below us, I smiled through my tears imagining his little soul chasing his yellow football like old times—freed from an old body that had quit suiting his active spirit a long time ago.
I looked at my copy of the picture. Barysh and I both had our noses toward bunches of tiny grapes with the sun shining on our faces. Beyond us, you could see the Thunderbird next to the sunflower patch with the Rhine glistening in the background.
Claus had finished and had his hand on my shoulder again. I looked at the grave and held his hand before walking to the car.
As we walked away, I whispered a little farewell wish, knowing the gentle afternoon breeze would carry it to my friend’s ears. “Run, Mikhail Baryshnikov. Run and dance and drink all the wine, my friend. I love you.”
My grace is sufficient for thee. What was it and why was it sufficient? I hadn’t forgotten the verse—I was going to read the book.
That night, I got on social media for the first time since I’d left the US.
My newsfeed was filled with ballet photos, ballet videos, magazine covers, and plants—lots and lots of plants—mostly from Mom. She knew I’d been planting both at Claus’ apartment and at my German teacher’s apartment, so she’d been all ideas.
At Claus’, I had planted eight trays of pink and white geraniums that contrasted with the dark iron of the terrace’s railing, and I’d used smaller pots to plant columbines, foxgloves, and hawthorns. Now I had a beautiful picture of Barysh surrounded by pots and flowers on the day we started the garden. Oh, Barysh. My eyes hurt as if they were going to implode or pop. Plants—focus on the plants.
In our garden, delicate white flowers I’d never seen before brightened the pinks and purples, and little evergreen trees and bushes brought a soft contrast to the space. I had planted the same for Frau Jöllenbeck, my teacher, but in a different color scheme: reds and yellows. The right vine, maybe a wisteria, would add height and dimension to my terrace—and hers—one day, but I hadn’t found the right plant yet. Mom had posted a couple of things that had potential. I’ll look it up later.
Barysh had loved the scent of the garden and lifted his head every time a strong breeze ruffled the plants, surrounding us with a warm perfume. My throat hurt too now. Focus.
I should call my parents to tell them about Barysh’s passing, but I didn’t have any energy left in me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone—not tonight. But they needed to know. Everyone needed to know that a devastating loss happened here in Germany today. My lips trembled and I wept as my fingers typed R.I.P BARYSH.
There. Then I turned off the computer and the phone, losing myself in my many memories—all I had left—of beloved Barysh.