It's the little things.....

Patches

"And for the million hours that we were well I'll smile and remember it all, then I'll turn and go while your story's completed. Mine is a long way from done."

-Sister Hazel

Jonathan Chapman / Columnist

Patches was given to me on my 7th birthday. He's a beautiful tri-color beagle, complete with white-tipped tail. He was my dog. I named him Patches because on his underside were a series of brown spots. From the day he became my dog, I loved him. We would run through the yard, he would pee, I would wait, and we'd run some more.

Mama told me that he was going deaf. It was sad to think that the dog that once would come running whenever I whistled for him had lost one of his most powerful senses, but I figured that little besides that had changed.

When I was home for fall break, I had a harsh realization. Patches, whom I've had for 13 years, didn't know who I was. I went out to feed him with my mother one morning. He knew to come out from under the bottom of the porch because he felt us walking down the steps, but it was clear he didn't hear us. We opened the screened door that lead out onto the patio and there he was. I petted him a little while he chowed down on the food my mother and I brought him. But then he ran off. I went after him, but he kept running away from me.

Maybe I look different or smell different.

Maybe I have just spent too much time away from him.

My parents always welcome me with open arms whenever I return home. I have never felt like Fairburn, my hometown, was anything but that.

Gradually, though, the longer I stay away, I began to realize that the more things change, the more they stay the same. I suppose that because things stay the same, when change happens, it hurts.

I knew that pets weren't forever—that someday wagging tales would become still, that barks might one day become silent.

What hurts the most is that every time a small part of what I once knew changes, I realize that I won't be able to get it back.

Maybe it's for the best, leaving the past in the past. With each step forward, however, I can only take memories. When the real life reminders of those memories start fading, you can't help but feel sad.

As pieces of your past die, parts of you die with it.

But in the sadness of losing the past, we continue to have the hopes of the future. Here's hoping the future is as good as the past.

Contact Jonathan Chapman at opinions@elon.edu or 278-7247