It's said that upon death we cross a bridge, called the Rainbow Bridge. Our loved ones and pets are eagerly awaiting our arrival on the other side, where the sun is shining and the grass if lush and soft.

In our present life we remember our pets as we last saw them. The pain they were in, the trauma that took them away. But in the green fields across the bridge, they are restored to health, as we once knew them. Their broken limbs are whole again. Their starlit eyes of blindness are dark and deep with the love that we gave them when they were with us.

They have forgotten our bad days, when we were rushed and unable to give them the love they needed. They have even forgotten the worst of our harsh manners and moods, that we wish we could deny were a part of us. Yet they too were ever a part of our natures, our distorted way of dealing with stress. They have forgiven everything that we find it hardest to forget.

All that remains is their memories of their years with us. They are in the best of health, frolicking in the sun with each other, awaiting our rejoining.

Duke remembers eating table scraps in a garage, till a woman on the paper route introduced us. He gladly chased beside the bicycle till we got home. I fed him by the back door, and Mom questioned how I could take care of a big dog like that, hoping he'd leave during the night. He was waiting for me the next day, and for years followed me on my route, chasing other dogs away in the small town in southern Illinois... Elkville, in the land of strip mines.

The fact that he remained the next few days, and his gentle nature convinced Mom that he was a good dog. He gained weight, till he was ninety pounds, and curled his furry tail proudly over his German Shepherd back. The five mile delivery each day was his chosen duty. He knew the path as well as I did, taking shortcuts occasionally across a field, while I threw papers on remote porches, waiting for my bike to catch up with him.

He liked to check in on Smokey, my buckskin quarter horse. They knew each other well, after many hours of riding till the sun streaked the evening sky. He was beautiful with his tan color and his black mane and tail. One day another dog joined in, and he got scared, kicking at them, till he broke Duke's front leg.

That was the day his gentleness was the most obvious, as I had to pick him up with a broken front shoulder and lay him on the back seat to get to the vet, who did emergency surgery, using a six inch metal pin to mend the bone. The old-timers said a dog never recovers from a broken front leg, but within a few days it was a problem to keep him from following me on his daily duty. He knew the route so well, that he had to be kept inside the house. When the door opened, he was good at pushing anyone aside and escaping, chasing down the streets with his paw slightly turned outward, wrapped in heavy surgical tape. It flopped a little more than his other feet, but never seemed to slow him down.

He lived with us for several more years, dying one day while I was living in Chicago. My horse had meanwhile been sold to my best girlfriend's husband... Huh?... Yeah, that's the truth. I never saw him go. If there's barbed wire across the bridge, he's probably still squeezing through it to visit with other horses down the lane. He would elope across the country fields, leaving me to track him down by his hoofprints, and ride him to the lot bareback, neck-reining him with my belt around his neck. I thought I was related to Roy Rogers, when I was in high school... Happy trails to you, Smokey.

A pure white Samoyed was my companion for nearly twelve years, both in Chicago and Cedar Rapids. He was with me through some of my darkest years, but his forgiving heart allowed him to love me more than any human ever could.

Winter snow was his love. He would dive in headfirst. If he stood real still I couldn't even see him, since his eyes were the only thing that wasn't white. Even his eyelashes were white. I remember putting a bronze bell on his collar, so I could hear him when we'd go to the park along the lake in Chicago, to run free.

He didn't have one mean bone in his body, gleefully running up to any dog he saw, like, "Hi, there, wanna play?"... Jumping and nuzzling them to urge them on. Didn't go over too well with some of the Dobermans in the area. He'd grown up with a chocolate Lab, Luke, who finally moved to the northern Michigan peninsula. They had wrestled for three or four years, so when he got jumped one day, he looked shocked, not understanding why things had suddenly gotten so serious.

He moved in kind of by accident. My friend, Larry, said, "Let's go look at the puppies. You don't have to buy one."... Mistake. Impulsive shopper. From a litter of nine, he came up and laid his head on my shoe. A few days later he came home, and I remember setting him down right between the two cats who were almost the same size as his small bundle of white fur. They did the standard outraged Halloween arch, but ended up all three eating together.

The three of them became great friends, maybe part of the reason that Cossack loved all dogs and cats. His best friend was Buddha, a short haired tiger cat, who weighed about twelve pounds. His brother, Caesar, had long hair and wasn't quite as fond of dogs. Still, on cold winter nights, he was glad to join them, curling up between the dog's legs.

Buddha withered away from intestinal problems, over a six month period. He still slept with Cossack, but didn't have the energy to run and play. In the end he was so weak I'd carry him around with me. The last night, he tried to wait for me to get home from work. Cossack was nuzzling him with his nose, trying to prod some life into him. He was still warm, but his spirit had scampered over the bridge. I carried him around for two hours, refusing to accept his late departure. Somewhere there's a text book on feline skeletal surgery, with a couple shots of the screws in his back leg. He was published long before me.

Caesar found it impossible to refuse the dog's advances after that, taking his brother's place to keep him company. He was fifteen when Cossack's arthritis took over. He could no longer climb the four steps to the kitchen, standing and waiting to be carried up, while the cat would squeak his greeting. There's still an empty space in my heart that was once filled by soft white fur.

The cats were three when the dog joined them. After twelve years together, Caesar had outlived both his brothers. He spent his last four years alone with me, lying in the chair beside me. He would shake occasionally, when a pain grabbed him, but he never cried, never complained. As long as he could lay next to my warm leg, he was satisfied, not caring how long I sat at the computer, as long as I stroked him occasionally when he'd look up and give me the little squeak that was his trademark, his way of letting me know he was still there with me. We had lived together for nineteen years when it was his time to go. It was another terribly painful moment to hold his empty shell, while his soul leaped like a kitten over the bridge.

I can almost picture them there in the sun. Smokey's tail swishing against his hips, as he chews some lush grass and looks up in anticipation. Duke and Cossack playing tag, taking turns chasing each other, the way Cossack liked to do with me. Caesar and Buddha climbing a tree, to see if I'm in sight yet. Punkin, the other orange tabby is with them too. He came home with me from the first hospital I worked at in Chicago, while Jim, my best friend at that time, took his brother home. He's probably still digging up plants, more like a dog than a cat, a bit too wild for apartment living.

Oh yes, there's Dude, my kitten from Amana, with his white V-neck, white boots and white gloves. And a dozen more cats who lived in the woodshed while I was in grade school. Even big old scary George Washington, the black cat that came to stay for a couple weeks, while traveling across the country. He never let me touch him.

Gypsy, I almost forgot about you. The sorrel Shetland pony that I rode in high school, before I bought Smokey. Alan lived on a farm and we'd bribe you to the halter with some corn. You'd charge down the gravel roads with me, while Alan rode Domino, the stocky Shetland who was his favorite.

Dad's dogs are all in the prime of youth, running together now... Meno, a Cocker Spaniel, named after an African folk tale, meaning, "I don't understand."

Mitzie, the white terrier mix, who made the trip from Amana to Elkville, when Dad gave up as Personnel Manager at Amana Refrigeration, to be the English instructor he had studied for many years before. Coined phrase, "Look it up in the dictionary."

Max, the black labrador/beagle low-rider, named by Millie after the actor, Maximillion Shell. He tackled tanks far too big. Thank God there aren't any cars whizzing through the Rainbow Fields!

Penny, the little toy terrier, who loved Millie more than anyone. She liked to sleep on pillows, but could jump four times her height to get a treat. Strong legs for such a small sprinter! When she'd get out of the house, she'd run like it was burning down, and we'd send Duke out after her, to make sure she came home safe.

Duchess, the black labrador, who was far too territorial, guarding the silverware drawer when I'd come home for college breaks. She had trouble keeping her teeth away from hands or pant cuffs.

Champ, the salt and peppered, short legged, part German Shepherd, who didn't like kids, but loved to go for walks along the levee, to bark at the ducks. He kept Dad company when he moved out to write his three volume novel, which I regret to say I still haven't read. Sorry, Dad. Is there still time?

Cobber, the Australian word for "Friend," with his brown eye and his bluish/white eye, ready for a part in a Spielberg film, but not as mean as he looked. Those Dingos are fighting dogs, though, and he quickly overpowered Cossack from underneath.

Patches, the Beagle left with Mom when he passed in 2000. He was afflicted with separation anxiety, and is the only dog I know who would try to open a sealed can of peanuts, not to mention getting cereal off the refrigerator, by way of the kitchen table. With plenty of love, he survived.

Mamselle, Antoinette, Molly, and more cats than I can remember. Heathcliff, my favorite, since you could hear him purr from the next room, and he never attacked me like some of the Siamese mixes, who would lie in the hall outside the bathroom to extract toll from your ankles.

They've been waiting a long time in earth years, but to them it was just the blink of an eye, while as full as a lifetime of bliss. I reach the height of the arch and start down the other side. I can hear the chorus of their many voices, rejoicing.

Mom and Dad, holding hands on a bench, next to some new tree starts. She waves and he gets his big grin. She can breathe again, and he can see. I can't wait to hug them.

Uncle Paul is touring the field with Opa and Oma, telling jokes as he always did, his deep laughter booming his exuberance for life.

I take a look back at the bridge I've just crossed. The end of the long journey. I don't need to remember the way back, since it was a one-way trip. The stresses of life sometimes threatened to swallow up the good times. Here are all my friends of a lifetime, basking in the sun and fresh air, ecstatic that we are all back together again in those timeless moments that last forever.

I don't know if this is a true story, but I hope so. Before I come back for another round of life, I'd like to relish some time with those I've loved on this journey, without the pressure of time, the demands of work, or the heartaches that cripple the mind, leaving us wondering how we got our priorities so screwed up. How did I so often miss what was most important? I could have overlooked others' weaknesses. I could have given more love. I could have welcomed more souls to join with mine. Why didn't I, when I had the chance?

Here in the bright sunlight, I can see the rainbow of love, each color blending and mixing with the next, while every single droplet is a refraction, a reflection of what could be real.