You Are My Sunshine

Check out this article in the March issue of Incite Magazine. Thanks to Jeremy Henderson for editing this. 

On Hallowe’en Night 2006, I dropped by Shoppers Drug Mart to pick up some candy for the slew of trick-or-treaters who’d soon be arriving at my door. I tied up my dog, Sunny, to a post outside. Unfortunately, my mind was so preoccupied with candy and costumes that I returned home without the dog. Suddenly realizing what I had done, I raced back to the shop… only to find her gone.

No one – not my neighbours, the shopkeepers, nor Animal Control – had seen a trace of Sunny. She had simply vanished. That’s when I launched a major search and rescue operation, plastering the whole neighborhood with “LOST” signs and offering a $250 reward for her safe return. About three days later, a woman called me, reporting that she’d seen a young man walking Sunny on Dalewood Avenue. I zeroed in on the neighborhood, leafleting every house with signs. Finally, I got a call from a man who said that he had picked up the dog because he’d thought she’d been abandoned. Within minutes, I was at his house and recovered my pooch, who nearly knocked me over with excitement..

This whole ordeal proved to me the strength of my connection with Sunny. We had been through everything together. When I first arrived as an immigrant from India, she was my only friend for a while, and never failed to comfort me with her wagging tail. When I would have a tough day, she’d always lick away my tears. Sunny woke me up in the mornings with the cold tip of her snout, demanding food and patting, and would later run with me through the forests.

By all accounts, it was a miracle that Sunny was ever born. Her mother was a huge German Shepherd, while her dad was a tiny spaniel. But somehow they mated and produced a perfect blend of their genes – a beautiful, medium-sized golden pooch with a very sweet temperament.

Nowadays, I find myself thinking more and more about Sunny. It’s been a year since she died of a stroke at age 14, and the urn of her ashes sits desolately on my bookshelf. Beside it lies a big silver spoon that I used to feed her sips of water as she lay on her deathbed.

As the frosts of winter thaw and the spring comes in, my family plans to plant a small tulip garden in our backyard, where Sunny loved to play. My mother wants me to sprinkle her ashes all over this garden. A part of me feels like holding on to the urn forever, and that losing the ashes would mean finally letting go. But I know in my heart that Sunny’s ashes are not her lasting legacy. The person who I am today was shaped and molded by her constant presence throughout my childhood. She helped teach me the meaning of play, of joyfulness, and most importantly, of unconditional love.

And so I will go out this spring and spread her ashes, watching with a mixture of sadness and joy as the barren soil blooms into vibrant reds and yellows.