Four Poems and a Life at 173
A beagle will follow its nose, and its heart follows close behind. - American Beagle Club
Bruegger… when I nap in the clover, I still feel your gentle lean - just enough to say I wasn’t alone.
Your paws are gone from the yard, but not from me.
Preface
We always joked that Bruegger wasn’t a dog so much as a roommate with excellent ears.
He was our first beagle as a couple, the one who arrived at exactly the right moment,
as if he’d been waiting for us to get our act together.
Over the years, a whole vocabulary grew around him -
the spot on the console where he liked to ride,
the clover patch where he supervised my naps,
the house number (173) that still feels half-empty without him.
These four poems trace our life with him:
from the Saturday he chose us,
through years of small, steady companionship,
to the quiet clarity of his last morning,
and finally, to the gratitude that carried us through his final appointment.
I’ve also included a companion poem from The Steady One’s perspective,
because grief, like love, is something we shared.
Here’s our boy.
When Bruegger Chose His Seat
We’d been looking for months...
every Saturday,
every day off,
every shelter within forty miles.
I’d walk the rows
with hope in my pocket,
leaving a little of it behind each time.
Then one Saturday,
there he was -
a beagle gentleman
waiting in the Getting Acquainted pen
as though he’d ironed his ears
for the occasion.
He came toward us
with that beagle certainty,
as if he’d already
read our names.
They said we were third in line.
Third.
A small heartbreak.
But by the time
I drove home,
the phone rang...
You’re up. Come now.
And we did.
The Steady One and I
in a rush of keys,
coat sleeves,
half-tied shoes,
and an unreasonable amount of hope.
He rode the console home
in our Dodge Raider,
front paws braced,
head high,
claiming his kingdom.
At 173,
he stepped inside with confidence,
looked around,
and made a quiet, certain choice.
Truth is,
we didn’t find him.
He found us...
and he finally
took his seat.
He settled into our days so naturally that the house rearranged itself around him.
In the seasons that followed, sunlight, grass, and a patch of clover became
their own quiet ritual.
A Nap Among the Clover
I stretched out where the grass grew deep,
its scent like rain on warming skin,
and felt the afternoon seep slowly
through cotton seams and thoughts within.
The clover brushed against my arms,
cool petals small as fingernails -
sweet as an easy childhood,
soft with hidden hives and honey.
Most days I’d close my eyes a while,
ten minutes, maybe less -
and drift as though I’d walked a mile
through fields of quiet weightlessness.
But I was never there alone.
Bruegger would settle by my side,
a beagle carved from sun and bone,
my soft-eyed sentinel of the yard.
He’d lie in patient silence
until a footstep met the street -
a neighbor, jogger, or postman
daring to interrupt our peace.
Then up he’d spring,
my drowsing guard -
his bark a cannon in the clover.
Every nap I started was ending soon,
but somehow never ruined.
Never really over.
He’d return,
proud and trembling with duty done,
then press his warmth against my knee
as if my rest
was his to keep.
This patch of grass - unclaimed, unnamed,
where Boulevard meets Street -
held the shape of our companionship
like a palm remembers what it held.
Let engines rise and skylines climb -
I learned peace here:
sun, clover, breath,
and an old beagle guarding my sleep.
Years slip by quietly when measured in naps and walks.
But the day always comes - too soon,
when the clover lies still
and the world takes on a different kind of quiet.
When the Clover Stood Still
The morning felt too bright
for worry.
Sunlight came soft through the blinds,
the kind of light
that makes you pause
without knowing why.
Bruegger rose slowly,
an old rhythm in his bones,
the gentlest sway
of a body that had served him well
for so many years.
We went outside together...
a habit,
a comfort,
a practice stitched into our days.
The clover lay quiet in the yard,
still in a way I’d never noticed,
as though the breeze
was waiting for him
to take the lead.
He sniffed the air,
nose lifting toward something
I couldn’t see.
Then he lay down softly
beside me,
his breathing easy
but thinner than it had been
the week before.
I rested my hand along his back -
the familiar ridge of him,
and he leaned,
just a little,
as if settling into the truth
he already understood.
There was no fear in him,
just a gentle kind of tired.
And in that quiet,
watching the clover hold still
around his paws,
I knew.
Not loss -
not yet -
but the tender turning of a season.
Love sometimes asks us
to choose the hard thing
while there is still light left.
He looked up at me,
trust steady in his eyes.
And I knew it was time
to take him in,
not because he was gone,
but because he deserved
to be held all the way
to the threshold.
The morning didn’t dim.
But something in it
became clear.
So we gathered ourselves -
not ready, never ready -
and drove to the vet,
carrying love in its hardest
and most faithful form.
At the Last Good Table
The day Bruegger died,
the sky was undecided -
gray, then bright,
as if the weather itself
was grieving in shifts.
At the vet,
they led us to a room
too clean,
too quiet -
a room built for endings
we never want to meet.
He lay on the table,
calm as river stone -
the same calm
that steadied us
through storms,
errands,
and ordinary years
he made extraordinary.
The Steady One
stood beside me,
her grief quiet,
steady,
close enough
to hold me up
if my knees betrayed me.
I was the one
who broke.
I bent over him,
kissed the warm spot
between his eyes,
the place my lips had known
for a decade,
and whispered
thank you
for choosing us,
for guarding naps,
for filling 173
with something soft
and unrepeatable.
His breath thinned
in gentle threads,
as if the story
knew exactly
where to end.
When it was done,
I rested my hand
on his chest,
feeling the warmth
slip quietly
from fur
into memory.
We left with less weight
in our arms,
and far more
in our hearts.
Outside,
the sky settled
on a quiet blue -
as though the day
had chosen
to hold the three of us
a little longer.
Her Hand on His Back
I didn’t say much.
Your grief filled the room
in a way that needed space.
Mine moved quietly,
the way water moves
under ice.
While you kissed
the fur between his eyes,
I kept my hand
on the small of your back,
a reminder
that no one breaks alone.
Bruegger watched us both,
soft-eyed,
unafraid -
as if he trusted us
to carry his memory
the way he carried our joy.
When his breathing eased
into stillness,
your shoulders fell,
not in defeat,
but in devotion.
I held you then,
because love deserves witnesses
when it becomes memory,
and because he leaned on both of us
for all his days.
And now,
we lean on each other.
One More Last Thought
Loving a dog is one of the simplest and most complicated things we do.
They arrive without pretense, teach us whole new sections of our hearts,
and then - unfairly, inevitably - ask us to let them go.
If you’ve been through this, you know.
If you haven’t yet, you will.
And when you do, I hope you get a day
as full of clover, sunlight, and trust
as we did with Bruegger.
Thanks for reading,
and for remembering him with us.
GBS jr
2010
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