Last Times

     I wonder about last times. Sometimes I wonder about future last times. Like I wonder about the last time I take a breath. I wonder if I will know it is my last breath. Because if I know it is my last breath, I think I will make that last breath great. I will breathe a grateful good-bye to all I have lived, loved, and wondered upon. Or at least, that is what I think I will do.

     More than I wonder about future last times though, I wonder about past last times. So often when it has been the last time, I did not know it was the last time, and I failed to make that last time the greatest one ever. Afterwards, I felt regret.

     Sometimes, I still feel regret. Because if I had known it was the last time, I would have tried harder. At least, that is what I think I would have done.

     But sometimes I also wonder if knowing it was the last time and trying to make that last time the greatest would have made a meaningful difference overall. I wonder if the last time matters more than previous times. I wonder if the presumption that last times are of supreme importance is perhaps wrong.

     As I wonder about last times, my last time going for a walk with Anna comes to mind. Anna was a dog. She was a yellow Labrador Retriever from a Georgia Lab rescue.

     When our family adopted Anna, she was a frightened, emaciated eight-month-old puppy. Once we got her home, it did not take long for her to gain weight, and although probably due to her undernourishment early in life, she stayed relatively small for a Lab, Anna became a beautiful dog.

     Yet, Anna never did lose her fears. All day long she would carry her food bowl around in her teeth. Like it was her most cherished possession, more treasured than all the balls, toys, and bones she now had as a member of our family.

     Then, twice a day, at mealtime, she would become frantic. Although never once in our twelve years together was a meal withheld, it was obvious that every day, Anna was terrified she was not going to be fed.

     Loud noises of any kind also terrified Anna. Even a laugh, a cough, or a sneeze would send her into hiding. Nor could she tolerate confined spaces. A crate was out of the question, and even a twenty-minute car ride with the windows down was traumatic for her. One time when my husband and I boarded Anna, desperate to get outside of the cozy room where she was being kenneled, she chewed through both the frame and glass of the room’s window. We never boarded her again.

     A friendlier, gentler dog has never lived. Anna loved everyone, humans and animals alike. She welcomed any new stranger into her life with open paws. She was extraordinary that way.

     Anna loved the woods too. In that way, she was like me. Not a day went by that we did not go for a walk in the woods. It did not matter if it was rainy or icy or blustery or in the single digits or sweltering and buggy. Regardless, we went for our walk. Sometimes we would walk for hours.

     Anna was always happy on our walks. Especially when there was snow. Again, like me, Anna loved the snow. Even when she became old and gray in the face, and her big, brown eyes were clouded and dull, she would frolic in the snow like a frisky puppy.

     There was a deep snow on the ground, and more was swirling down from the sky the last time Anna and I went for a walk. I was tired and not feeling like myself that day. After we had been walking along for a much shorter time than usual, I wanted to turn back and go home.

     Anna had run ahead of me, leaping and prancing through the snow, only slowing down to snuffle the wonderful white with her nosy pink nose and shake the fallen flakes from her champagne-colored fur. When I called her, she turned and dutifully bounded back toward me, stopping a few feet from where I stood. Ears perked, mouth open in a wide grin, tail exuberantly wagging, Anna looked so happy in that moment. I knew she was not even close to wanting our walk to end.

     But I insisted we turn back. I saw the disappointed, questioning look she gave me. Nonetheless, while still romping through the snow like a puppy, Anna followed me home. A few hours later, Anna became ill. She died the next morning. She died at home, here at the cabin. I was lying beside her and singing to her when she took her last breath. I felt her final exhalation on my face, and then I felt her leave. She left without fear. The dog who was afraid of so much in life died fearless.

     Later that week, I walked alone where Anna and I had walked together that last time. Her pawprints were still in the snow. I could see where her tracks followed alongside my own, where she had run ahead, where her tracks ended, and where she had backtracked to me. Looking at Anna’s pawprints, I was again reminded of how much more she had wanted of what would be our last walk.

     I felt regret. I thought that, if I had only known, I would have kept walking with Anna until I collapsed. After that, I would have crawled. At least, that is what I thought I would have done.

     But then one day, a few years later, as I walked in a snowy wood with another dog, I began to wonder if perhaps I was giving that last walk with Anna too much weight. I began to question why a last time matters more than previous times. It occurred to me the many wonderful walks and other great times Anna and I had shared should be the ones that matter most.

     But then demons of regret attacked me. Well, I thought as I tried to defend myself, at least my very last time with Anna was good. At least I was there for her when she died.

     But that thought of my very last time with Anna brought back thoughts of other last times.

     I thought about the last time with a tender-hearted friend, who, not too long afterwards, took his own life in a tortuous, gruesome way. Our last time, I spotted him at a gas station where I avoided his eyes and gave him no more than an impatient wave because I didn’t want to stop and talk. I only wanted to fill up my car’s tank and get going.

     I thought about the last time with my mother, who suffered from dementia and died shortly thereafter, confused and frightened in a strange place. Our last time, I whispered good- bye and snuck away as she slept because I didn’t want to risk her waking, looking at me with those familiar, sea-blue eyes, and bearing the anguish of my mother not knowing me.

     I thought about the last time with my ex-husband, the father of my child and one of the best friends I will ever have, who three days later was murdered and died alone in what used to be our happy family home. Our last time, I stayed locked in a bathroom and said good-bye to him through a closed door because I was too hurt and disappointed to open the door, look into his eyes, and give him the respect and common decency he deserved.

     Of course, I felt regret as those thoughts came back to me. Of course, I felt regret for those last times I could have made better. And, who knows? Maybe even great.

     And sometimes I still feel regret for my failed last times. Every now and again, demons of regret bring me down and feed themselves with my spirit. But when they do, I remember the wonder that came to me in a snowy wood, lifted me, and fed my soul.

     For in the end, surely it is that the best times are the times that matter most. Because although not all times shared with loved ones, including sometimes last times, are as great as they could have been, where there is love, demons are impotent attackers. Where there is love, demons are defeated. Not with war, but with peace.

     So, now when my demons of regret attack me with my failed last times and other failed times too, I fight back with my wonderful memories of the best times. Which is not to say I forget my failings. But, along with my failings, I remember I’m human. So, I’m okay.

     As for Anna, she is what she always was. An angel. Like my friend, mother, and ex- husband, along with my current husband, son, and so many others who love me.

     And in this season of thanksgiving, I am so grateful and filled with wonder for the many angels in my life and their gift of peace.