At Least They're Committed

It’s drizzling and gray and the sun has faded early behind the Rocky Mountains at dusk. I go outside, taking my time as the icy drops strike my face and hands before reaching the spigot to unhook the garden hose. It feels like snow. On the way back inside I chirp, “Hi Lu!” at the base of the front yard tree, its leaves turning yellow, only above my point of interest. I go to Lu’s grave and prop up the pink “Hope” cross and the vase with faux lilies and tell him to sleep well; golden leaves have started to blanket where he’s buried, but the overgrown lawn thrives elsewhere.

The juxtaposition of this and seeing my new truck as I turn back toward the house stirs the memory of Bill, a reporter I was friends with at the Daily Times in Farmington, and his story about the running suit in Alaska.

Bill was living in Alaska at the time and jogging pret’near every day, the same trail, the same folks to pace yourself with, the same wave or good morning as you shuffled by. Not many of them, he said. Not many regulars and not many folks period. It was an ideal running trail, where the quiet could take you away as you listened to rustle of the trees, the birds and the wind and counted your own footfalls.

On this particular day as he ran, he saw what appeared to be a large garbage bag, stuffed and lying in the trail a ways ahead. The breeze flapped at only the high curves of the material, showing it was filled and dense. But as he got closer his eyes adjusted. Lycra . . . it wasn’t flimsy plastic, it wasn’t a garbage bag, it was lycra. No movement. Eyes adjusting . . . Not a discarded bag, rather a discarded man. He bolted forward, recognizing the running suit, and slid in close to the man. No breathing, no movement. Bill is a big guy and was able to instinctively hoist the middle-aged man into an upright position, back to chest. He heaved on the breast-plate, and the man groaned as the last of the air in his lungs left his body. Other joggers ran near, Bill called to them to get help and they sprinted back to their cars, to the nearest pay phone, there were no cell phones. Bill stayed with the man and tried to bring him back, although he knew he was gone. Soon there were paramedics, police, more joggers, the coroner.

Bill stayed as long as he had to, then finished his run. But, he recalled, as he jogged through the parking lot, the man’s classic but not ostentatious car sat there, waiting. And the reality of what had happened struck him and he realized this car would wait and wait and never be driven by this man — this fellow he often waved to and chatted with on the course and by their cars — again.

I miss my rat. He was resilient, his eyes stayed bright and he never complained as he lost the use of his back legs, then his front, left leg. He cheerily adjusted. It wasn’t until the last three days that the light in his eyes dimmed, that he lay on my lap on his side, seeking sanctuary. I’m thankful he is at peace and comfortable and that he “died after a short illness.” As I sat on his grave a few days ago, I closed my eyes and saw Gabriel, and he winked, and on his shoulder was Lu, standing straight up, confused and curious and just a little excited though he wasn’t sure why he should be. It made me smile. It made me think that I’d like to go like the man in the running suit. It made me pray that until it’s my time, I can shrug off the pain and the limitations and the fear and live the example of a crooked teethed, ugly, beautiful hairless rat.