Dog Medicine

by Julie Barton

  I reared back and threw the entire box of ashes out as far as I could into the Pacific. But the minute the box left my hand I regretted it. I didn’t want to let Bunker go. I fought the urge to swim after it, but the water was ice cold, and I had made my decision. I walked back to shore and sat down, weeping, unsure. My friend looked out at the water and pointed.

  “Look! It’s coming back!” she said. I looked up, watched the box bob in the water, pushing forward with each wave toward the shore. The moon pulling the tide in. Closer. Closer. Closer. Back to land. Back to me. The box hit the beach and my friend walked to it, picked it up, and brought it to me. She set it at my feet. I grabbed it weeping, holding the sandy, wet box to my chest. I laughed, because Bunker had returned to my feet, to leaning against my shins, to telling me it would all be okay, reminding me that he’s still with me, always with me, that a love like ours never dies.

  Julie and Bunker in 2007

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks first and foremost to my agent Marly Rusoff who fought so hard for this book’s rebirth. Thanks to my dad for coming to the rescue (again), and to Adam Wahlberg of Think Piece Publishing for having the strength of character to let go. Enormous gratitude to Kathryn Court for seeing something in this book, and to her immensely talented team at Penguin for so flawlessly seeing it to fruition. Thanks to Michael Raduelscu for helping Bunker soar internationally. Eternal thanks to my dear friends and book doulas, Robin Oliveira and Lisa Grantham.

  Lifelong gratitude to my beloved husband, Greg, without whom none of this would’ve been possible. Thank you for encouraging me to follow my passion and for then wiping away the inevitable tears. Thanks most of all for the years of laughter. There is nothing I cherish more than the twinkle in your eye when you’re about to laugh.

  To our daughters Rachel and Lucy, I love you. Remember: Always tell your truth. Rachel, thank you for your strength and your brilliant song. Lucy, thank you for your incredible emotional intelligence and for entering every room with a smile.

  I am forever grateful to my brother for giving this story his blessing. To everyone who knows Clay, you also know that he grew up to be a loving, hilarious, fun, and caring man.

  To my mom and dad, who saved my life many times. Remember when I wanted to see what would happen if I stuck a coat hanger in a socket? I love you beyond measure. To the Jimenez, Whiston, and Houdek clans, thank you for being part of me. Special thanks to Aunt Marcia & Uncle Rich for taking me in.

  To my chosen family: Erik and Michelle. You were Bunker’s second parents. Navigating the first few years of real adulthood in the love shack with you was one of my life’s greatest gifts. To Henry, Shane, and Ben, I love you boys. Miss you Otto. Love to Dudley too.

  To my Vermont College of Fine Arts sisters, Dawn Haines and Robin Oliveira, thank you for sharing your brilliance, kindness, and friendship with me. “Bienvenue!”

  To my teachers: P. F. Kluge, Tim Parrish, Vivian Shipley, Steve Almond, Cheryl Strayed, Pam Houston, Samantha Dunn, Alan Heathcock, Rosalyn Amenta, Sue William Silverman, David Jauss, Larry Sutin, Pamela Painter, Laurie Alberts, Illana Berger, and Laurie Wagner—thank you for your wisdom, encouragement, and inspiration.

  Thanks to Robin MacArthur, Karen Lynch, Laurie Doyle, and Anne Kelley Conklin for your careful edits and kindnesses.

  To all the dogs who came before: Bunker Hill the 1st, Sam, Midnight, Ebony, Blarney, Cinder, Bogey, Ben, and Rocky. You are all my angels.

  And, of course, my Bunker. Thank you. I miss you. I love you. This book is for you. You brought so much healing into the lives of so many. I carry you with me. Thank you for loving me so completely, Bunka-doo. You taught me everything.

  Finally, to my current dog, Jackson, a rescue mutt who is eight years old but as hyper as a puppy. You may not bring the kind of dog medicine I’m used to—you may be a pain in my butt sometimes—but I am slowly learning that even you bring important medicine. Thank you for napping near my desk as I wrote much of this story. I know you were working some kind of magic. You’re a good boy. I love you. Walk time?

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