after W. H. Auden’s “Funeral Blues”
Linus was our second beagle; small, stubborn, and endlessly full of light. Sixteen years of love, naps, and joyful noise...that was him.
We live at 173. Over time, that number stopped being just an address and became a kind of shorthand for home. Whenever we say, “back at 173,” what we really mean is the life that’s happened here; the laughter, the quiet mornings, the sound of paws on the stairs.
Skipper came first, my childhood dog; wise, spry, and long gone before this house ever found us. Then Bruegger, our first beagle at 173; patient, steadfast, steady as a metronome of love. And then Linus, the little stray who bounded in one ordinary day and made the place brighter from the inside out.
When Linus died, the house grew still. But not empty - never empty. The quiet just learned a new shape.
This poem is for him, and for all the joy he left in the corners of this old house that still bears his name.
_______________
At 173 After Linus
Stop all the clocks, hush the playful bay,
Sweep up the footprints where he used to lay,
Pack up the leash, the half-chewed bone -
Linus, our light, has gone from home.
Sixteen years he threaded through
our seasons, work, and play;
A nose to the ground, a howl to the skies,
A guardian beneath Sunday’s eyes.
First came Skipper, wise and spry,
who taught a child that dogs can die;
Then Bruegger, steadfast in the grass,
barking at leaves as the hours would pass.
And then Linus, a little stray -
a prisoner pardoned one ordinary day.
Oh, the riot of joy he carried inside,
Oh, the laughter he offered, untried.
He was a field-runner, a nap-taker,
soft-eyed dreamer, heart-breaker;
A Beagle of love and air,
whose empty collar now swings in despair.
The house grew still the day he died -
even the air seemed hesitant.
No rustle on stairs, no paws to pry,
No nose to nudge, no slumbered sigh.
At 173, his paws are still;
the sofa widens, remembering his weight.
Life abhors an empty space,
yet longing will lead us to search a face.
Another will come with mud and sun,
tracking his own sunlight through the house.
A carnival of bark, a tumble of tail,
a hope unspooling in a small body.
But let’s not pretend nor stoop to mend
the Linus-shaped crack time cannot end.
Grief is the price of a love complete;
we pay it gladly at Linus’ feet.
So raise a glass, let memories roar:
the Monster who bayed at the screen door,
the jester, the sage, the wanderer free -
still guards our hearts at 173,
and in that quiet, we are full.
_______________
Postscript
If you’ve ever loved a dog, you know - the house changes shape when they’re gone. You still catch yourself stepping wide in the kitchen, leaving room where they used to sleep. You still look down before turning on the light. You still pause at the door, half expecting the soft shuffle of paws, the quiet insistence that the world’s waiting just beyond the porch.
For a while, the silence feels too large. But then the memories start to move again - gentle, familiar - and you realize they’ve just found new corners to rest in.
That’s how it is at 173 now. His leash still hangs by the door, his bowl still tucked away on the bank porch. We don’t rush to fill the space. We just live with it; grateful that love, once it finds a home, never really leaves.
It lingers, like sunlight through an old window.
And sometimes, if you listen just right,
you can still hear him dreaming.
Reader’s Note
For anyone who’s ever lost a good dog, and found the house a little too quiet afterward. At 173, the silence still carries his warmth. Love doesn’t leave; it just settles deeper into the walls.
GBS jr
2024
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