Bernie loves to travel, is intelligent, curious, affectionate, has a real sense of adventure, makes few demands, is willing to try foreign foods, and has a quirky sense of humor.
He weighs 120 pounds, is four feet long from his Saint Bernard-type nose to his little scarred stump of a cut-off tail. His giant bulldog-looking body barely balances on slender legs and webbed feet. His white fur-like hair with brindle patches give him the look of a cross between a polar bear and a cow. He is nine or even ten years old, the far end of his life expectancy for a dog this size. His face, legs and body are covered with deep angry scars from past wounds, and he limps with arthritis and a broken leg that healed without being set. The scars on his muzzle and neck indicate he was used to fight and there’s no doubt he had to kill other dogs to survive. He has a chronic cough from past episodes of kennel cough, and a recurrent ear infection which needs regular prescription medicine. He has cataracts in both eyes and significant hearing loss.
We found each other late in Bernie’s life. It saved us both. There was a period in our lives together when Bernie and I lived in Paris. I’m still not sure if we were running away or running to. I only knew there was no place else for us. I needed to be in Paris and Bernie needed to be with me.
I planned that we would disappear into the deepest layers of the City of Lights, to ride her moods, to feel her pulse and the beat of her heart and rest there.
The night we moved into our apartment on Montmartre, Bernie and I danced. Of course, I had to get down on all fours to dance with him since he can’t stand on two legs anymore. We rolled on our backs and bumped heads and laughed at each other. It was freedom. It was a cross-species revelry, and anything-can-happen celebration. Twenty years ago, I was ready to move to Paris, to write, to begin my real life. It didn’t happen then. But tonight alone makes up for the long wait.