Comfort Dog

                When I walked into my brother’s house a few days after his death, I expected his dog Hugo to bound into my arms and lick my tears away. That didn’t happen. Instead, I staggered into kitchen, jet-lagged, exhausted and grief-stricken, having  traveled halfway around the world, from my home in Japan to South Carolina. I anxiously sought out the affable blonde Labradoodle named after a hurricane, with whom I thought I had bonded on my last visit, even as I was enveloped by human hugs. Where was he? Where was that turbulent ball of fur?

                Finally, Hugo appeared, tail wagging furiously, flitting from mourner to mourner like an eager-to-please party host.  I pulled him close for a cuddle, digging my fingers into his fur. For a moment, I felt as if we had reconnected, but then the door opened, admitting a newcomer, and Hugo was instantly distracted. He trotted away off, away from me, to check out the new guy, without a care for my feelings. Didn’t he realize that my brother was gone? That I was in need of his comfort? Didn’t he remember our walk in the woods?

                The last time that I had seen my brother, six months before, he had complained about Hugo, about how annoying he was, how he barked every time deer crept into the vicinity, which was often, about how Hugo was always coming in and out and in and out of the house. My brother sometimes worked at home, and Hugo would trot up with a rag in his mouth wanting to play tug-of-war. But I knew that deep down my brother loved Hugo because he was a dog person, and Hugo was sweet and lovable in spite of having failed obedience school. In the last photo that I took of my brother, master and hound are settled contentedly on the love seat, side by side.

                During my summer visit, we had taken Hugo for a walk at a national park on Lake Hartwell. The day was hot and Hugo panted heavily as we wandered through the shadowy forest. My brother and I took turns holding the leash as we caught up on each other’s lives and worried aloud about our ageing parents. At the end of the walk, my brother led the dog to the edge of the lake so that he could gulp up water.

                In my brother’s final days, Hugo was his comfort dog. They went on walks together as part of my brother’s therapy. After his death, Hugo became comforter to everyone. In those difficult days, it seemed as if we all wanted to take him for  walks – cousins and his children and nieces and nephews.

                Finally, I got my chance. I let him lead me through the neighborhood where my brother had gone running and chatted with neighbors and yes, walked his dogs. It was good to be out of doors, doing something active, but Hugo seemed indifferent. I’d thought that dogs were empathetic and preternaturally aware of human feelings – unlike my cats, who were needy and selfish and only hopped up onto my lap to satisfy themselves. Then again, I wasn’t Hugo’s master – just the master’s sister. What did he owe me?

                Still, a day or two after the funeral when the crowd had thinned out and it was just my brother’s family, my parents and me in the house, I laid on the bed with my sister-in-law. Hugo jumped up and joined us. Unbidden, he snuggled up to me and put his head on my leg. He stayed that way for a long time, comforting me.

Although she currently lives in Japan, Suzanne Kamata returns to South Carolina once or twice a year. Her forthcoming novel, The Baseball Widow (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, November 2021) takes place partly in South Carolina.