Zeus

Zeus was Dad's beloved canine companion of 13 years. The two were inseparable. While Dad was still driving, he would take Zeus to selected spots where they could explore and meander together. Dad loved that dog. I can't tell you how many times I saw Dad come out from his shower and promptly go to lie down on his bed, where Zeus was lying, and the two of them would be there, arm in leg, silent, for several minutes, Dad whispering "sweet nothings" into Zeus's captive ear.

We had to put Zeus down the beginning of last year. It was the first time I had seen my father cry at all, let alone weep. And weep he did. For days at first, and then sporadically for weeks, and then randomly for months. Lately Dad's grieving has been resigned to a somber mention of Zeus and how much he is missed.

Cut to last night, when I was visiting Dad in the hospital. He was telling me about the surgery, describing what he knew about the procedure, the "going under", and the waking up. Then he told me something I didn't see coming at all--That the nurses told him that as he was coming out of the anesthesia, he was crying and mumbling, and crying and mumbling. And the only word they could make out was the name Zeus.

Moments like that just squeeze at my heart.