Mishka, the Twenty-Year-Old Maltese Mix, and the Blessing of the Animals

Mishka tinkles without noticing. A warm spot spreads through the fabric of my sleeve, and I adjust my hold, turning slightly away from the people behind me.

Mishka is a Maltese mix, over twenty years old, more than a hundred in human years, and so light I sometimes forget she’s there until I look down. She fits into the crook of my arm without effort.

“It’s okay, Mishka-girl,” I say into her ear. She lets out a small yawn and a quiet bark afterward, more breath than sound, like a whisper she wasn’t sure she meant to make.

Her fur is thin and uneven, white dulled to the color of an old, used cloth. One ear folds in on itself. The other twitches at sounds she can’t quite place. Her eyes are cloudy, blue-gray at the edges, never settling.

She trembles constantly. Her breath is unpleasant but familiar, the smell of age and medicine.

She allows herself to rest against me, slack and quiet, as if this is simply where she goes now.

We are standing in the parking lot of St. Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church, in line for the annual Blessing of the Animals, the same way we stand here every October. My car is parked a few rows back, a gray Hyundai, in roughly the same spot I always choose. The lot slopes slightly toward the street. Leaves collect along the curbs and in the cracks of the asphalt. The air is cool. The sun is pale and distant.

Families gather in loose clusters, adjusting leashes, calling out to one another. Children dart between legs, their voices sharp and high. Dogs bark and strain forward, nails scraping against the pavement. Owners chat as if this were a block party, laughing and catching up.

Someone ahead of us has brought a large purple bird in a small wire cage. It tilts its head sharply, watching everything at once. The movement startles Mishka. She stiffens in my arms, lets out a thin sound, then settles again when I rub the top of her head.

I watch the line inch forward. I register the longtime pastor, Monsignor Sullivan, his green windbreaker near the front, the silver bowl catching light when he shifts. A newer priest, Eastern European by accent, stands beside him, clumsily thumbing through the pages of a blessing book.

In front of me stands a woman in her mid-twenties, holding her boyfriend’s hand. She leans into him when she laughs. At her feet is a puppy, all legs and enthusiasm, some kind of retriever mix. It pulls at the leash, sits when told, then immediately forgets why.

She has a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A few loose strands of hair keep slipping free, and she tucks them behind her ear. The puppy noses in our direction and lets out a sharp, hopeful bark. I feel the brief urge to say something, to comment on the dog, the weather, the line, but I pull back.

The Blessing of the Animals happens every year in early October, on the Feast of St. Francis. It’s meant to honor pets as part of God’s creation and to ask for their protection and health. It is simple. Well-meaning. It doesn’t take long.

I don’t practice my faith anymore. I wouldn’t call myself atheist, I just don’t believe much of anything. But I’ve been coming here for twenty years. I come out of habit. For Mishka. Out of what feels like obligation. I don’t try to explain the logic of it all, even to myself.

Monsignor Sullivan reaches us with the same unhurried efficiency he’s had for as long as I can remember. He is in his late sixties now, maybe older, his hair thinned and carefully combed, his face open in a way that suggests he expects all things to be pleasant. He smiles.

“Hi, Rose. Great to see you,” he says, peering down at Mishka. “This has got to be what; fifteen years of Mishka?”

“Twenty,” I say.

He nods, unfazed by the correction. “Twenty. What a blessing she is.”

He gestures to the man standing beside him. “This is Father Tomasz. He started back in August. He’s from Krakow.”

The younger priest gives a small, uncertain smile and dips his head.

Monsignor Sullivan steps forward. He dips his fingers into the water and flicks them gently toward Mishka. Droplets scatter across her head and ears. She flinches.

“May God bless this animal,” he says, voice even and practiced, “and the family she has loved. May she be protected and kept in good health, and may she bring joy to those around her.”

When it’s over, he lingers a moment longer than necessary. “You know, Rose,” he says, lowering his voice as if we’re sharing something private, “we’d really love to see you in church on Sundays. We’ve also got bingo on Thursday nights now. A new group’s gotten involved. You should join us, it’s a great time.”

I nod. I step aside so the next parishioner can move forward.

I turn to leave with the church behind me and stop. A little girl is kicking through a pile of leaves near the edge of the lot, her sneakers scuffing the pavement. The leaves lift and scatter, thin and brittle, catching briefly in the air before dropping back down. They scrape lightly when they land, a dry, hollow sound against the ground. She does it again. I watch the way they rise, the way they fall. I stand there, following the arc of them, listening as they settle.

That is why I come.

We bought Mishka for my daughter, Lanie, the Christmas of 2006. She was four then, all motion and noise. She had wild curls that never stayed brushed and fingernails painted pink, with more polish on her skin than on the nail itself. She sang constantly-nonsense songs, songs from the radio, songs she made up as she went. Our favorite song to sing together in the bath was “A Whole New World.” I’d often sing along with her.

On November 22, 2007, she died. Sudden Unexplained Death in Childhood. One in one hundred thousand. No warning. No answers. I found her myself on Thanksgiving morning, her favorite stuffed unicorn tucked under her cheek, as if she had placed it there deliberately. Mishka was barking beside her, sharp and insistent, refusing to stop.

My marriage didn’t survive the next year. John remarried a few years later. He has two children now, seven and nine. He remains a friend.

Nothing survived intact.

Just this dog, who keeps living.

I think of the words from the blessing. “The family she has loved.” I don’t know how faith accounts for that. Whether love is meant to be counted forward or backward, whether it accrues or simply stops. I don’t try to reconcile it.

I stand there longer than I realize. Long enough for the line to thin behind me. I don’t know how much time passes.

When I move again, it’s because someone speaks.

“Are you okay?”

It’s the young woman from earlier, the one with the puppy. She’s closer now, her hand still wrapped around the leash. The puppy strains toward Mishka, tail wagging, hopeful.

For a moment, I imagine reaching for her. Pressing my face into her shoulder. Letting myself cry where someone younger might hold me and not know why. The thought is brief and theoretical.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply.

I turn away before she can say anything else. Mishka shifts in my arms, leaning against me. I walk back to my car and drive home.

***

I dream of Lanie’s face just before I wake. She’s three, standing on a chair at the counter, helping me stuff mushrooms on Thanksgiving morning. She looks up at me with a wide smile, her eyes bright and expectant. Her mouth opens, but before I can hear her sweet voice, I wake.

It’s 9:15. I fell asleep with the television on. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is playing. I get up. Later, I’ll go to my parents’ house. My siblings will be there. Their children. One of them has a baby now.

I walk into the kitchen. I pass the refrigerator without stopping. Lanie’s pre-K photo is still there, held in place by a red magnet shaped like an apple.

In the living room, Mishka is lying in her bed. She is motionless.

“Mishka-girl,” I say quietly, to myself.

I cross the room and reach down. She startles awake, barking sharply, the sound sudden and loud in the quiet house. She twists her head and licks my arm, frantic and wet.

She is alive.