If Farmer Were Here...
Is it okay to talk to your dog's ghost? I think so.
The First Time Percy Came Back, by Mary Oliver
The first time Percy came back
he was not sailing on a cloud.
He was loping along the sand as though
he had come a great way.
“Percy,” I cried out, and reached to him –
those white curls –
but he was unreachable. As music
is present yet you can’t touch it.
“Yes, it’s all different,” he said.
“You’re going to be very surprised.”
But I wasn’t thinking of that. I only
wanted to hold him. “Listen,” he said.
“I miss that too.
And now you’ll be telling stories
of my coming back
and they won’t be false, and they won’t be true,
but they’ll be real.”
And then, as he used to, he said, “Let’s go!”
And we walked down the beach together.
People told me this. That it would be a long time – maybe a very long time – before I would stop seeing Farmer all over the house. Some said this slippery ghost might never leave. I think they may be right. The ghost is a shadow of time passed. He is there and gone in a nanosecond, leaving an imprint of empty space where once a warm, furry beast lay.
Of course I have conjured him, but not consciously. When I get up from my desk, I step over the ghost lying curled on the rug next to the bookcase, blocking my path to the door. When I descend the stairs to the living room, I look first to the red couch, where he is stretched out with his head on a comfy hooked-wool pillow like a human.
On this sunny day, he is waiting to be let out the back door, wanting nothing more than to walk six feet out on the deck, lie down, and bask in the sun. He won’t go far, because he knows I will automatically show up in the kitchen at 4 p.m. to feed him.
The problem now is spring (so-called spring, which is faux-spring on the Vineyard) and the beginning of gardening season. Suddenly I’m seeing him, sensing him, everywhere outside, not just inside.
I’ve begun the seasonal ritual of shuffling back and forth between the garage behind the house and the hoop house down in the field, and this takes me past Farmer’s favorite perch on the side of the hill, next to the small vegetable garden. There the king looks out on his kingdom and makes sure all his minions are staying in sight. If not, he will have to round us up.
He will come down to the hoop house, stick his head in the door, and say, “Okay, Mom is here.” And then take up a position in the grass with a straight line of sight to my work table. If Dad is digging a big hole (Dad digs a lot of holes around here), he will help, offering moral support by lying close by – and supervising.
In Farmer’s book, lying in the grass in the sun is maybe the best thing ever. The only thing better (other than hamburger) is lying in the grass in the sun with his peeps nearby.
In the early evenings, now that the light lingers later, I see him start down the path that begins in our backyard and meanders through the woods, the path that takes us on “the walk.” He walks a little, stops, turns his head, and says, “Aren’t you coming?”
And so I follow him. I can’t help it. The longing to be with him is particularly strong right now, perhaps because his absence is just one more way the world seems to have shifted into another dimension, one that I’m not sure how to navigate.
The other day I found myself saying to Farmer, “Well, I’m glad you’re not here – I mean here, here – to see how crazy this world has gotten.” (Yes, I talk to him, too. A lot.)
But really, that’s not true. I do wish he (not just his ghost) were here, because he’d know what to do. Better than me. He wouldn’t be making his vision blurry reading a zillion opinion pieces. He wouldn’t be worrying about the price of groceries; he’d just be thumping his butt impatiently on the oak floor at dinner time, waiting for table scraps from Dad.
I hear him saying, “Mom, stop worrying so much about the future. You’ve got to enjoy the present, because, you know, it doesn’t last. You don’t have people – or dogs – forever. Love them all as much as you can. I’m not saying don’t sniff the breeze – because you gotta know what’s coming, what’s out there, for sure. But remember how good it felt to scratch behind my ears, to rub my tummy, to pet that silly knob on the top of my head? That’s the good stuff. You gotta concentrate on that.”
I say, “Funny you should bring this up, Farmer, because if I close my eyes, I can still scratch your ears and your tummy. Your ghost lets me do that. He is very accommodating. I hope he sticks around.” 🩷
Whew. Bawling at 5 AM is a healthy start to the day if they’re happy tears. I’ll go with that. I rarely wake up this early—generally I need another hour. I almost never open my computer or phone this early. This morning I was looking specifically for a meditation that I’d read here on the Stack to start my day—and I saw your essay on Farmer.
It’s been 10 months since we lost Oliver and I still step over him in the darkness of the bedroom to go to the bathroom. Every morning. All of his favorite spots will be possessed by his ghost forever.
Blessing to you Susie 🙏
It takes time.
Oh, such is the price of loving, especially our beautiful animals ~ but we have their memory shadows all over our hearts and the remainder of our earthly lives ~ blessings galore!