Will's Red Coat

by Tom Ryan

  “Am I wrong?” I asked her.

  “No, Tom, you’re not.” She reached over and gave me a hug.

  “If it’s okay, I want to do it the way I told you about, and I want a few more days with him if possible.”

  “Of course, but I prefer to do it this week. The end is going to come quickly. I don’t want him to suffer any more than you do, Tom. He hasn’t known that for a long time. It’s one of the gifts you gave him.”

  It was Monday morning. “Friday . . .” My voice broke. “Friday.”

  “I think that’s a good plan, Tom. He’s right on the edge, and I think he’ll be okay until then, but know I’m here for you guys if he needs to have it done sooner.”

  Will was getting weaker by the hour, it seemed, but he was serene. I was ready to let him go, but selfish enough to want a few more days with him.

  Atticus had watched Rachael and me closely. Ever the stoic, whenever she spoke, he looked to her, and when it was my turn, he’d look in my direction. At times he looked at Will, who was now back in my arms, resting his weak head on my neck.

  Back at the car, I placed Will on the floor in the back, on his bedding. Before I closed the door, Atticus did something he’d never done. He stood in my way and then hopped in next to Will. He didn’t lie next to him, but sat up and looked straight ahead. Atticus had never chosen to sit in the back before, and he had almost always avoided Will.

  Atticus was doing Atticus things.

  I called Ken and Ann right away and let them know the news. When I mentioned what Atticus was doing, I said, “He’s not looking at Will. It’s like he’s keeping watch over him instead.” By the time I hung up on our conversation, Ken and Ann had also lost their words. I know they were mourning for Will, but their hearts were breaking for me as well.

  That’s the thing about those who mean the most to us. Words are not always necessary in conveying the most important things in life. Often it’s the space between words that sends the message. In that pause, the sigh, the struggle to fight back a sob. We know when someone is smiling on the other end of the line. We also know when their hearts feel deeply.

  In my devotion to Will over the next few days, I discovered a fresh closeness. It’s something I felt when going through Atticus’s cancer operation and chemotherapy. All that mattered was what existed between us. The rest of the world, all the noise, all the tears and stress, evaporated. We had entered into a sacred period of our lives, and in that acceptance of what was to be and the celebration of what had been, we were creating a sanctified place. Will had performed the ultimate trust fall, and I caught him.

  I bought Will his favorite treats, played with him, held him more, and when I washed him in the tub, I felt as if I were preparing him for the mystery beyond. To be entrusted with this act of kindness empowered me. Everything we did in those closing days was a prayer. Every hug, every kiss, each time our eyes met in understanding.

  I wanted Will to have more flowers, so I stopped to see Carrie and shared the news with her. Will’s personal florist took it as you would expect.

  Words alone can’t describe what takes place when a heart aches and then breaks. But eyes tell the story, and I saw it in Carrie’s.

  As we left, I thought about the first time I met Carrie. Atticus and I had just moved to Jackson and we met her and Tulip, a tiny puppy she had just brought into her and her husband Joe’s life. I wasn’t that far removed from my Newburyport days, and my reporter filter screened everything. She was bubbly and kinder than I could believe. We talked for several minutes, and by the time we parted, I was thinking, There is no way anyone is that nice. It has to be an act.

  Over the years, though, I learned Carrie was as pure as anyone I’d ever met. She has become a close friend.

  Carrie played a real role in Will’s redemption. It wasn’t just that she provided flowers for him; it’s as if she chose and arranged them specially to appeal to him. On the rare days I brought Will flowers from the grocery store, he was pleased, but when I bought them from Carrie, he responded strongly. He’d reach for them and want to hold them, and often I couldn’t get them in water right away because he’d lay his head down on them and fall asleep.

  Imagine the dreams those fragrances brought to his world. Imagine the comfort he took in falling deeply into what might as well have been an entire field of flowers.

  In the few days that followed, Will was happy, but he became weaker. When I helped him stand, he did well for a few minutes, but he’d soon collapse. There was usually a period in the afternoon when he was a little bit stronger. But I was on constant call for him. I understood that’s how it would be until Friday, and I welcomed being there for him, no matter how tiring it was. The one thing that convinced me that I wasn’t being too selfish was how he responded. Strength may have been dwindling from his old body, but contentment remained.

  To assist him, I fed him by hand, and held his water bowl for him when he drank. At night, he no longer got out of bed, so I put a diaper on him when he slept. Everything was changing except what I offered him and what he received. He continued to get fresh flowers, and there was always music. I’d put his blankets in the clothes dryer to warm them, and then tuck him in. Because he had difficulty lifting his head, I’d place a pillow under it.

  Always in my head was my old contract with him: Will, you’ve come so far, you don’t owe anything to anyone. You are free to go whenever you want, but gosh, please know that you’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.

  As the sand was running out of Will’s hourglass, I was ready for him, as was Rachael. How special it is to be able to send someone on his way to whatever waits beyond. I was grateful to be able to make this choice for one I adored.

  This had always been my responsibility to him, from the first promise I made to him on that very first day, with blood from my thumb dripping into his mouth. We’ll help you get to wherever it is you need to be.

  Will was there.

  When I posted the news on our Following Atticus Facebook page, the responses came rushing like a flood. How was it possible that this lonely dog, who’d come to us without a friend in the world, now had hundreds of thousands of people mentioning him in their prayers and writing about how he had changed their lives, and openly crying at their jobs and in front of family and friends? How had this happened? He would never know these people. He knew only Atticus and me, Ken and Ann, Rachael, Carrie, Roy Prescott at the radio station, and a few others. But it seemed that the world knew of Will.

  As I sat in the backyard with him wrapped up in his quilts—the crisp brown leaves blowing around us and the last of the acorns and chestnuts falling to earth, plunking through the undergrowth loud enough for me to look up expecting one of our local bears—I thought of the endless ripples his example sent forth into the world.

  People were wearing “Will’s Wisdom” T-shirts. They were sipping tea and coffee and hot chocolate out of “Will’s Wisdom” mugs. Every penny from our portion of the sales made its way to the Conway Area Humane Society to help other homeless animals who like Will needed another chance. The echoes of his life reminded me of the glorious thunderstorms that pass over our mountains. The thunder booms so loud you can almost feel the ground shake, followed by resounding echoes that travel through the ravines and down into the valleys, and bounce off other mountains.

  I knew that Will had become a hero to many who had given up. Perhaps life hadn’t been kind to them, or health was an issue. Loved ones grew old and infirm, and some died, and Will was there to lead by example. If Will could move onward, by all means, so could they.

  The celebration of Will’s life lasted over the course of those declining days. People we’d never met offered up kind words and tried their best to lift my spirits. But here’s the thing—my spirits weren’t down. I was feeling resolute. I was right where I was supposed to be, fulfilling a promise to a friend.

  The Facebook posts were so impassioned, richly tender, and deeply mournful that I had to stop re
ading them; I needed to spend as much time with Will as I could. Still, I was glad I had shared the last few days with those who followed Atticus and Will closely. They deserved their good-byes and their heartache. When it comes to affection, I believe in osmosis. Marijane and I spoke of it often.

  There may be some who are still alive but we are no longer close with for any number of reasons, or distance keeps us away from them, or circumstances. It doesn’t mean we love them less, or not at all. Marijane always urged me to offer my love to those who might not be able to accept.

  “Tommy, still mention them in your prayers. You don’t have to be with someone to offer your love to them. Keep them warm in your heart. You will be surprised how often those feelings will find their way to them.”

  I’m not sure if this belief of Marijane’s came from her time in the church, her years with the Navajo, or her studies of Jung. Maybe it was a combination of all three. I liked the idea of sending my highest sentiments to others with no expectation of return, so I adopted her suggestion. In my daily prayers, I name about ten people I’d like to send blessings to: five whom I love and another five whom I might not even like. Since I believed in this kind of prayer, it was easy to share Will’s last days with hundreds of thousands of people who had never met him, but felt close to him and had invested in his life.

  I’d always wanted to get Will to the point where pain and fear no longer held him captive. Similarly, I wanted him to meet death as if welcoming a friend after a well-lived life. I missed Marijane something fierce in those last few days. We would have rhapsodized about the miracle of death and what brought us to this threshold. But I still talked to her, and somehow her words made their way to me. Mostly, though, it was the same message: Will is walking in beauty.

  In the last days, Roy Prescott came over to say good-bye to Will. He lay on the floor with him and kissed him good-bye. “It’s been an honor, my friend,” Roy said as he wrapped his arms around him.

  On the Jackson loop we ran into Kevin and Michele Pratt one last time. They were standing in front of Flossie’s, their general store. She had always been kind to Will. There was something nurturing in the way Michele greeted him and spoke into his deaf ears. She stooped down until she was face-to-face with him. As I watched this heart-melting scene, I thought about how quickly our last good-bye would come.

  On Wednesday, we visited the meadow at Iron Mountain. Of all the trailheads in the White Mountain National Forest, it is the most scenic, and the only one where the view from the small dirt parking lot is better than the one from the summit. From the meadow, Pinkham Notch stretches north. To the right are the Wildcats and the Carters. To the left are Monroe, Washington, Adams, and Madison of the Presidential Range, the fourth, first, second, and fifth highest peaks in New England. It’s a staggering view made even better by the lack of man-made structures. Your eyes leave the meadow and travel forward to those mythic peaks as a raven would fly, over treetops, hills, and valleys, before they climb to where the natural monuments touch the heavens.

  There was a trace of snow above the tree line, and working its way across a deep cerulean-blue sky was a massive lenticular cloud.

  I brought my lunch and treats for Atti and Will. We climbed up on the meadow, with Will riding on my shoulder, until we had the best view possible. After eating, Atticus sat with me, regarding the numerous mountains he knew so well. Will, meanwhile, had marshaled some strength and was doing his best to walk through the grass. The ground was uneven and he stumbled, but I let him walk. He staggered away from us, catching himself when he started to wobble, making it ten yards, twenty, and finally thirty. He was wearing his red coat, and by now it was a little large for him. But he looked kingly in red, with that contrasting white color.

  Will then did something new for him—something that had me fumbling for my camera. He sat with his back to us and looked out at the majesty stretching before him. I’d seen Atticus do this thousands of times. It was what the hiking community had come to know as his “Little Buddha” pose. But Will had never done it. He could never see things far away, and his sore hips made sitting difficult, especially during the last days. I was shocked he’d made it that far, yet he managed to stay upright.

  Will sat for several minutes.

  It was astounding to see him taking everything in. This is what I had wished for him in the days right before we met. I imagined him climbing a mountain or two with us, finding himself at the summit, sitting Little Buddha–style, and accepting the grace of where he was.

  Will wouldn’t see me wipe the tear from my cheeks as I picked him up and pulled him close for a hug. I carried him back to the car, and in the five minutes it took to get home he was asleep again. Dear old Will, he of the youthful soul and ancient body.

  People would often say, “Will has an old soul.” I disagree. His soul was shiny and new. Although I always treated him with the same dignity I offered all older beings, both animal and human, that his soul was buoyant and hopeful. Atticus had the old soul. Wise, uncanny, steadfast. What threw people off about Will was not his soul, but the body he carried it around in.

  That last week, the nightly Willabies meant even more to me. I chose the songs carefully and shared nearly everything on Facebook. The photos of Will in the meadow in his kingly red coat. The Willabies. My thoughts as the hours ticked by.

  When Will moved to Jackson in May of 2012, we had six thousand followers on Facebook. There were now more than two hundred thousand, and it seemed as if every one of them wanted to say good-bye. Once unwanted, Will was now the center of an expanding universe, part of the important fabric of life.

  I’ve often thought about how people love Atticus, but it was different with Will. Atticus had a presence that was otherworldly, beyond all of us. But something about Will spoke to each and every one of us. He knew heartbreak, hopelessness, disappointment, pain, betrayal, and abandonment—the experiences we recognize in the lines of our own faces when we look into the mirror each day. We can all relate to the emptiness of going without love, understanding, compassion, or empathy. We know what it is like to be lonely or without a friend, whether for a day or a year. Atticus had never known a day without love. He was consistently self-assured, confident, with a knowingness about the world. There was no reason for him to feel any other way. No, most of us have no clue what it’s like to live as Atticus lived—for his entire life.

  Atticus represents an ideal, a possibly unattainable hope. Will is us, with all our fears, scars, and possibilities.

  On Thursday, Carrie called to say flowers were coming for Will. When she arrived with eight arrangements, I placed them around him as he slept. When he woke up and saw the splashes of color, his eyes grew wide. He struggled to get to his feet, but in his hurry he fell. When he could stand with my help, he approached each arrangement and greeted it with deep sniffs. But try as he might, he couldn’t make it to all of them before his legs gave way. One by one, I brought them before him. He was like a child on Christmas morning. If I could have that much delight in only one minute of life, I would have found something purer than anything I’ve ever known.

  I was troubled on Thursday night. I slept on the couch, with Atticus tucked behind my knees, because Will refused to leave his flowers behind. I fought to stay awake, knowing in hours I would never have Will to sit with again. Ultimately I failed, and when I awoke on Friday morning, rain lashed against the windows. The rain was forecasted to stop, but the day was to stay overcast and cool.

  The plan was to meet Rachael at her office at eight in the morning. She was going to insert a port in Will’s leg, and after work she’d drive with us to the Iron Mountain meadow where we’d say good-bye. (With the port, she wouldn’t have to search for a blood vessel in the middle of a field.)

  When I carried Will to her, she looked at him and her face betrayed her attempt at bravery. She said, “Tom, he has deteriorated even more in only a few days.” Tears lined her eyes. “I am so glad we are doing this. But it’s such a gloomy
day. I just talked to Bryant, and I have tomorrow off and the forecast is for sun. Wouldn’t you rather do this in sunshine, when he can see the mountains?”

  Yes, yes, yes! I could have kissed the good doctor.

  In some ways, I felt selfish. I was doing my best to honor my promise to Will and take whatever pain he had by making it mine. And yet when a daylong reprieve was offered, I lunged for it.

  As it turned out, it was a good thing I did, for something remarkable was about to happen.

  Whenever I considered the day I’d have to say good-bye to Atticus, I didn’t have strong feelings about how it should go. It goes unsaid that I would be with him as he drifted off to a new world in his sleep or died in my arms, for we were always together. But how Atticus and I said good-bye ultimately wasn’t as important to me as how I said good-bye to Will. Atticus had lived a full life, and had never had a reason to doubt anything. He’d known only acceptance and this tight bond. Will was different. I will never stop imagining what that night in the kill shelter was like for him. It has haunted me since the beginning. When the time came, I wanted to hold Will, and let the last thing he felt be love, and the last thing he saw be my smile and my eyes. I wanted it to happen before he suffered too much.

  The rain tapered off and the sun surprised us. Since we had an extra day together, we spent as much of it outside as possible, Will in his coat, keeping him warm against the chill. We played in the backyard when he could stand, or he rode around in his Will Wagon.

  Back at home, Will settled in for a nap. When Carrie called to say there were more flowers ordered for Will, I was pleased for him. When she told me how many deliveries she’d have to make, I thought I heard wrong. She and her staff delivered flowers all day long. Our living room was so full there wasn’t a place to put them all.

  In the previous year and a half Will had received close to two hundred arrangements from his fans. On the day before he died, our apartment was filled with about two hundred orders in one day. They came from near and far, from across the country and across the sea. People had called the little Dutch flower shop in tears, telling Carrie and her staff how much Will meant to them. It became so crazed that one person was assigned just to handle the nonstop phone calls, while extra people were called in to put together bouquets.