Dog Days

(Tuesday, August 3, 2016)

16: Goodbyes and Greetings

With a clarity he'd never experienced, Tripper knew this: it is a bitter feeling to have much to say and no time left in which to say it, much love and no way left to show it.

He felt an unendurable compulsion to leave. To depart.

He stood looking on at Dipper and Mabel and . . . his old form. Oh, he wanted to lick Mabel's face, to tell her it was all right, that he would gladly do it all over again. And Dipper looked so miserable, crying there right in front of everyone. And his own poor body looked so shrunken, all torn and burned.

Still he hesitated, whining an inaudible doggy moan of misery and regret and the agony of separation.

Time to go.

It wasn't a voice, yet it came from behind him like a voice, warm and accepting and gentle.

Still he lingered, pleading in his mind: No, not yet. Let me try to fix them in my mind and hold them in my heart and remember them forever.

Oh, he knew that if he turned away, ahead of him he would see a lovely, welcoming light, inviting him to run toward it, and he knew he could run at top speed, the wind in his ears, and feel no pain, and all the regrets and all the memories of earth would drop away from him, leaving him light as air.

And he would run to the dark, dread, bottomless gorge between Now and Forever and find the colorful bridge arching over it, and he could run up the bridge and then prance down the far side, whole and healed, and pass into—into—

Whatever waited. He didn't know. In fact, no one could tell him exactly what waited, except that it would be wonderful.

But still his spirit yearned to remain with the twins.

Oh, Voice, don't make me forget them, or if I have to forget them, then don't make me go.

Please, Voice.

I don't ask for much.

Just a little while.

Please let me stay.

Please.

Just a little while.

Now, dogs are more level-headed than most people think, or for that matter, than most people are. A dog can't be hypnotized, and it is damn hard to fool a dog. Oh, put on a Halloween mask and jump out of a closet yelling at your buddy, if you're that kind of jerk, and he will yelp in alarm and maybe flee, but after that one startled instant, he will know who's behind the false face. He may even forgive you.

Also, as a rule, dogs do not hallucinate. Grandma's dog used to gently pull her back into her chair when Grandma started to get up and go see what Grandpa (three years dead) wanted, for she was certain she had just heard him calling her from the next room. And Grandma would arthritically bend over and pet her dog and say, "He's gone, Betsey. Good girl. I know that. I just forget sometimes."

Dogs, in the core of their souls, are realists.

Souls? Dogs? Really?

Hey, look in the eyes of a dog that loves you, even if you don't deserve that love.

You'll see a soul there.

But dogs, now, dogs see what is before them, not visions. A dog is a realist.

So Tripper could not see a triangular yellow someone kneeling near the twins. Bill Cipher was, after all, an apparition who existed in their minds and memories. He wasn't there. Oh, sure, he was there, all right, but he wasn't there there, if you can understand that.

Anyway, Tripper could not see him. His eyes could not capture an image that existed in the minds of the people in the clearing. Tripper could not hear him, either, for Bill's voice came not to the humans' ears but to their understanding. He could not smell him, because a mental image has no scent. For Tripper, he did not exist.

Or . . . maybe he did. Maybe in some strange, arcane way that neither dog nor person could explain, just maybe he did.

Oh, the pull of that beautiful light behind him, so strong, so irresistible: Time to go. Here, boy. Good dog. Come.

Whining, Tripper backed away, tucking his ghostly tail between his invisible legs.

No, no, Voice, don't make me go.

And then . . .

Well, Dipper and Mabel saw Bill Cipher hold out his ridiculous stick-figure hand, clenched around something. He opened his fingers, and a tiny but brilliantly gleaming white spark floated out.

"Gotta go," Cipher sighed, and he vanished.

The kids could see the spark.

And, wonder of wonders, Tripper could see the spark.

Behind him shone the glorious, infinite light of Eternity.

Before him gleamed the tiny spark of a dog's life, a dozen years or fifteen or even as much as eighteen, maybe. With a lot of luck.

The light behind him called.

But instead of turning toward it, he inched forward. He saw the spark sink into his lifeless body, cradled there in Mabel's arms, stroked by Dipper's hand as the boy shook with sobs.

Don't cry. I won't leave you.

Tripper leaped, following the spark.

He sank into his damaged body, into hurt and trouble and sorrow—

But also into love.

And he opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

And squirmed around to lick both their faces.