Yesterday, while eating lunch with the back door open and the storm door shut, I heard a whine. Almost a squeak. As if Stuart were whining to come back inside.
From where Sniglet is relaxing in this photo, Stuart would lounge and watch the world go by. Then, when he was ready, he’d turn around, sit, and stare a hole through the storm door to come back inside the kitchen. When we didn’t let him in right away, he’d whine to get our attention.
Never one to overexert, his whine was sometimes faint. Sometimes it wasn’t. As when he was so frustrated when the chipmunks wouldn’t “come out, come out wherever you are” and the whines were more like a strong child stamping his feet. Hard.
I know I heard him. It was so real. It was him.
In a split second, I found myself upset thinking that wherever his soul was, he was in trouble. Why whine? Why that kind of whine? The pit of my stomach felt bottomless and painful.
The last thing anybody would want for a loved one who’s crossed over, is trouble. Or distress. Or pain. Or, God forbid, fear.
I thought being over the bridge meant that all was well. Trouble free. Freedom. And perpetual happiness.
I said to the Dad Peep, “Don’t think I’m crazy, but I’m going to open the door to let him back inside.”
I stood there with the door open for a few moments. And stared at the empty “backyard kingdom”.
The Dad Peep said I was acting like a crazy person. He was serious.
I know I’m not crazy. Am I?