Yoda's Story

           Dedicated with Love and Memories of Forever
                               to
                      SAUKENUK KARA JYOTANA
                     ("A Beam of Moonlight")
                             "Yoda"
              December 12, 1980 - December 7, 1993

He came to me on the wings of the wind, in the belly of a great silver bird. My eyes looked west, eager and anxious, worried. He was so small, so very small, and traveling alone. It was March, and it was cold. I shivered in the airport cargo lot, and the man behind the counter cast an agitated glance my way.

I nodded. "I know, you told me. I'll wait here."

My neck strained as I stretched to see past him. A glimpse of asphalt showed through the back door of the office--acres and acres of pavement. Why was the cargo area so far from the main terminal, anyway?

The phone rang.

"Hello. Yeah, yeah." The eye once again shot in my direction. "No kidding. I'll be right over."

He hung up and, without a word, left his post. In a moment a tractor hauling an enormous flatbed chugged past the back door. Ten minutes later I could see it returning--trailer empty except for one item. An airline dog crate.

Before it was halfway across the lot, I could hear him. He howled, screamed, cried like a tortured soul. A cold hand of guilt gripped my heart. How could I have had a little guy like that shipped, alone, all the way from Illinois to New York? Poor puppy--he sounded terrified, maybe even hurt. I began to tremble, wanted to break all the rules and rush out into the lot to meet the tractor. What could have happened to him on that plane to make him scream so? The trailer drew nearer; his shrieks grew louder. As it pulled up at the back door, the man's muttered curses mingled with the puppy's cries. I envisioned the worse--a broken leg, terrible diarrhea plastered all over him, a toenail torn from the roots because he caught it in the mesh door. . . .

The man hauled the dog crate roughly through the door and slid it over to me. I looked inside. Silence.

He was fine. No diarrhea, no blood, no exposed broken bones. Just a pair of dark brown eyes peering at me, frightened, from a little white face.

"Hi, there, Yoda. I'm your new mommy."

The long tail, tucked tight between his legs, wagged tentatively.

"Little monster screamed all the way from Illinois," the man grumbled and stuffed a clipboard and pen into my hands. "Sign here and take him home, please."

The friend who had accompanied me drove home. Yoda rode in my lap. Bad form, unsafe, he should be in his crate, we're setting up a bad habit here . . . the words went through my mind all the way from LaGuardia to Yorktown Heights. But his head was on my shoulder and his rat-like tail was wrapped around his haunches and his bones were poking me in the bladder--and I couldn't deny him this small consolation.

I'd waited ten years for my own Saluki. And now at long last he was in my arms. So soft, so small, so vulnerable--and all mine.

I was right about the bad habit, though, for it was another six months before I could drive without a long, gangly sighthound in my lap. If anyone ever tries to tell you that Salukis will take advantage of every chance for comfort--believe them.

For thirteen years, Yoda was my constant companion. Everywhere I went, he was with me. Attached. Connected--spirit, soul, and quite often even body, for he enjoyed the subtle contact of my loving hand. Friends, family, and even casual acquaintances just assumed that if Gayle was there, Yoda would be, too. And he was always welcome.

Yoda was an ambassador for his species. He changed lives--not just a few, but every life he touched was blessed in some small way by the contact. He was quiet and gentle. He took up little space in the home, but filled every corner of the heart. Love shone from his eyes, and the soft touch of his muzzle against my cheek sparked more emotion than the most furious tongue-lashing from another dog. Affection from Yoda was a privilege that had to be earned. Although he never showed any sign of shyness, he was respectfully aloof until he decided you were worthy of his love. Once that decision was made, he never forgot you, no matter how long a time span passed between visits.

We worried about jealousy when I married, but by the time the first of our children arrived knew there was nothing to worry about. Whatever was all right by me, was fine by him. His complete trust in me gave him the ability to accept whomever I accepted as a part of his family, a part of his life. Children, cats, and even the black Saluki puppy that invaded his later years were gently taken into his heart.

"Kind", my husband's uncle called him. "I don't know why, since "kind" isn't really a word you use for dogs, but this dog is different. He's a kind soul."

He is gone now, my kind soul. For over a year, I have lived without an essential part of my spirit, and have no expectations of ever outliving the pain. I wake at night and reach for him. I sit up in bed, my hand stretches out, and finds contact with a soft, lean, chiseled head. Not white . . . not quite right. The head is black, for the black dog moved into the sleeping place vacated by the white upon the night of his death. Even dear Jai could not bear to see that spot empty.

He's a good dog, this black one. Sweet and enthusiastic, affectionate to a fault. He clings to me with desperation, trying to fill the void in my heart. I love him dearly, and thank him for his loyalty every day. But he is not Yoda. None can replace the one that is gone--each one to come will have to make a special, separate, place of his own. Yoda's place will remain empty.

Death came swiftly, for even death had respect for the gentle spirit named Yoda. That dark demon, cancer, took him without the torture it usually inflicts. He had no discomfort, no weakness, until just before the end. Then everything went at once--the pain moved in, the legs would not hold him up. The end came fast, and he passed on with all the dignity he had known in life intact. He lay in my arms on the vet's table, as she took away his suffering, and closed his dark eyes one final time. I recalled an ancient Native American custom, and cared not who was watching, as I breathed his final breath into my lungs. Capture the dying breath of your most treasured one, the legend goes, and their spirit will become a part of yours forever.

Yoda continues to bless in death even as he did in life. More than one person has heard me speak of Yoda and had their life changed for the better in some small way. When a house burned down around a litter of nine-month old Salukis, it was Yoda who sent a little survivor my way. WindDancer was named in honor of him. I am sure he is her very own guardian angel, for it was a miracle that the dogs survived that fire.

At night I stand beneath the diamond-studded sky, my eyes turned upward and often filled with tears. Those tears are not always sad, although they are always lonely. I miss his touch, I miss the sight of him--but I know that his spirit is still here with me. It courses through my veins as it leaps among the heavens. He is gone now from the earth, but shall always be my connection to the starlight.

Jai, who is now gone as well, and sorely, bitterly missed. He was taken from us in the prime of his life, a healthy happy young dog of four years old. No cause was ever found.

©1995, Gayle Nastasi