Shamus Lives On

 by Betty Poole

For the past few years I have been smugly extolling the joys and benefits of living alone.  But since the loss of Shamus on December 22nd I am learning the real facts about loneliness.

 Life these days, in keeping with the weather, is gray and colorless. The bright, attentive presence is gone, leaving the house silent and still.  Glancing through the glass panes of the front door from the kitchen to see if he is patiently waiting to get in is still automatic, as is rising from my chair and stepping high over the remembered little body alongside.

 Memories of Shamus's familiar and endearing ways continually accompany daily activities. When I lay out on the bed the clothes that I propose to don for the day, there is no quick visual and olfactory check to ascertain the day's likely activities and the ensuing reaction of calm acceptance or excited anticipation.  The sound of opening the coat closet door no longer brings an eager companion, ready for any activity at all.  Work in the
garden was entirely acceptable, and a trip to town was worthy of scrabbling feet and a lightening leap into the car's passenger seat.

 Most days we stayed at home. In the morning Shamus made a pensive exit
through the front door.  After a response to the demands of his bladder, a thought would strike.  Simultaneously, ears would prick up, eyes would sparkle and the tail would curl up over his back like a banner.  Eager attention at the fence corner would be directed over to Tracey's house in case there was any sign of activity which would require vocal reaction and hopefully a human response.

 My neighbours' dogs can now walk past my house on Samuel Crescent without
rowdy demands for respect from the safe side of our fence.   Family members will miss Shamus's amusing conversations as he sat facing their seated figures in the livingroom.  He seemed to be asking them where they had been and what had kept them so long.

 Shamus was a regular attendee at the Seniors' Centre and was a long time member.  One of his closest friends was President Bryan who was searched out upon arrival and was always good for a cookie and a few words of recognition and welcome.   Now, while wrestling with self-pity, one of my occupations is watching the birds at the feeders outside my livingroom window.
 
 I have come to the conclusion that it is essential for one to assume responsibility for the welfare and comfort of another being.  Life can become limited and narrow and the relative importance of one's activities and relationships can be lost.

 This is the lesson that Shamus has taught me.