This is a story about grief. Grief and sadness are not strictly human emotions. The anticipation of loss is universal and I am witness each time a family pet nears death. Death is a dance, balanced between the living and the dying. I will not retell the details of the physical changes. I want to share the subtleties of great compassion of those, in the family grouping, who are left behind.
Sam (short for Samantha) just left us in May at the age of seventeen. It's now October. She was a mixed breed, white on black or vice versa, tall as my knee cap and hair of mostly fly away texture, always looking as if she had just backed away from a fan set at high speed. She came from "that place" where doggies go when they are homeless, abandoned and thrown away.
Dogs experience loss; maybe it is instinctual, perhaps it is wisdom. If I pause to remember, I now see how the others began a ritual of reverence. Fewer invitations to play, the learning to be patient and allow her time to steady herself. Mealtime was almost peaceful as her needs were met while the others waited to eat. What used to be a game of "fly by" en route somewhere, became an occasional pause to check on her, to lick and sniff as if to say "I know, I already miss you".
When spirit and memories are all that are left, the remaining pack still honor her memory and remember her favorite places- especially the shady incline in the back yard which became such a struggle to reach in those last days. Inside, as the sun streams and fills our home throughout the day, they remember how she followed it's warmth from room to room. If I call out her name, because I am still grieving, they rush to me wanting to reunite with the one who raised them. They wait-believing that she will come.
We feel incomplete, the house is too big. The number of dog dishes outnumbers the residents. There are too many everything now, blankets, towels and favorite toys. Her soul is tangible and it promises that the pain we experience, even these months later, will evolve and sustain us.
My pack has dwindled to two senior dogs. Couldn't tell you their ages. My record keeping is amiss, but I'm guessing one is at least twelve, which makes the other approaching 15 and that's in dog years. It doesn't feel like home anymore. I'm not the only one who feels this way. Abbey and Chelsea share my grief. My big girl, Abbey, is a Weimaraner, with a coat of short, soft, gray hair and docked tail. She was a rescue from an abusive woman who kept her outside. I had to get her to the dog wash and then we both waited at the car wash before she came home, I love her personality, most notably the responsive tilt of her head which indicates she understands my every command. The breed is notably untrainable, but who am I to judge? Her sister is a white miniature Schnauzer (easily recognizable when just groomed with prominent eyebrows and beard) who came into my life unexpectedly during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Her family escaped the devastation of the Ninth Ward in New Orleans and lived in the family car during their relocation from Louisiana to Florida. She had been given to another family, but their one and only dog would not welcome her. That family lived on my street.
A dog is insightful, instinctual and empathetic. I understand them. Cats not so much - which accounts for the four in my house living upstairs. Yes, I am responsible for their current address. I suppose they are thankful in their own way, but I'm just better with dogs. I relate to them, I have the pack mentality. I AM the alpha dog.
The continuation of this story is from my dog's perspective (I must give credit to the co authors of my life). I learn something every day from my dogs; respect, compassion, joy, pain, forgiveness and boundless love…
"Life at our house is different now. Sam's not here. I don't know what happened to her. My people carried her out of the front door and when they came back, they were not happy to see us. They
just walked around and cried. They fed us and let us out but they did not take us on walks anymore.
My family has gotten smaller and smaller. I remember everyone, they're all gone. What happens on the other side of that door? I've been through it lots of times. Chelsea goes through it, in the arms of Mom and comes back smelling so good and her hair is bright and shiny. Usually when I go out that way, I have to go to the other place where the rooms smell like dogs and cats and people come in and touch me and take me into the back where they stick me and make me scared. I've been to that place so many times that I know the way to get there. Mom always drives slower, especially on the turns so that I don't slide from one side of the car to the other. I like to stick my nose through the window because on the way the world smells wonderful, especially close to the equestrian center. When I had to wear a stiff thing around my neck, I couldn't put my nose through the crack, but I tried my best to inhale as deeply as I could.
It's just Chelsea and me. We don't play together; she barks too much. She doesn't like strangers.
She gets mad at Mom if we've been alone in the house too long and bites her ankles. Mom ignores her. I sleep a lot these days. I didn't used to. In the back yard, I still patrol and keep the squirrels away. There are only two dishes at meal time and we go to the same spots on the kitchen floor. I take many pills now, disguised in bits of cheese. Dad thinks I don't notice and if I spit out the pill, he gives me more cheese. It's a win-win. My sister sits and waits for her cheese but she doesn't get any pills. I liked it when the others were here because when they finished, I ate all the leftovers. It's just not the same and I wonder when the joy will return.
Something is up. Mom just walked in and Dad jumped up, went to change his outside self and they got our collars and leashes and put us both in the car. We've never both been in the car at the same time. I am in the back seat, Chelsea is being held because she is more trouble than I am. She has selective listening.
Where are we going? I don't recognize the smells on either side of my car. She's driving faster than usual and I'm having trouble staying balanced. It's like she is forgetting I am in the back, so I put my head between the two front seats and lick her arm. "Hi, Abbey" she says and turns another corner causing me to dig my nails in the soft smooth seat. I am trembling and my hair is sticking to everything. The windows aren't all the way down and I am leaving my breath on them.
Chelsea is trying to escape Dad's arms and cross over to Mom's side of the car. Even though she is much smaller than me, she is very strong. Mom keeps pushing her away and telling her "no".
The car stops. What is this place? I hear barking. It's a really large pack of dogs. All their voices are trying to tell me different things. "Run", "Help", "I'm scared", "Where are we". I'm really scared.
Chelsea is shaking. Dad is just sitting there. Mom gets out and goes in.
Mom comes back and opens the door to let me out. Dad carries Chelsea out and everybody goes through a door. We go into a small room. What happens in this room? It smells bad, not like my house. The floor is sticky in spots. I smell treats. Where are they? Some toys are in a basket but they smell like other dogs. Mom and Dad are excited. A person comes in, they talk. The person goes back out in the hallway. I hear the barking again. Same messages and I sense that they are on the other side of the wall and maybe they are walking on the other side of the door. It's not a good place. I don't want to be here. Chelsea is hiding in plain sight under the chair Mom is sitting in.
The person comes in again holding a strange little dog. Another person comes in. The strange little dog is now on the floor quite close to me. I get up to investigate and it backs away from me. She is really little; almost the same size as the grey cat which lives upstairs. She's really long and her legs are really short. Her hair is long and it sticks out from between her nails. I can't see color, so I don't know why Mom keeps saying "such a PRETTY little girl". Mom stands up and comes over to me and just watches. I don't understand. The little dog goes to Chelsea. Chelsea growls, sniffs and goes back into hiding. Dad picks up the strange little dog and looks at Mom. One of the people who came in, goes back out momentarily returning with ANOTHER strange little dog. This one is larger and excited; wiggly and bouncy and busy and climbing all over me. He looks like her, but his ears stick straight out and his coat is like mine. He runs to the other strange little dog and chases her and nips at her. She bites back and then both of them chase around like they haven't had any freedom for a very long time. His tail is so long that it whips everything he passes including me. He comes to me and tries to mount. I growl, I show my teeth. Mom stands right next to my head and doesn't look happy. The person says something I don't understand. The new dog sniffs at Chelsea causing her to sit down. Another person comes in and takes the busy dog away.
It's just the four of us again with the new plus one. I want to go home. Chelsea wants to go home. We stay and the person who came in before interrupts us and Mom gets up and goes with her. I lay down. Chelsea is shaking and wanting to sit with Dad but he has the tiny one in his arms and she is falling asleep.
Mom comes back, we leave the little one behind in that awful place. What happened to the wiggly and bouncy one? Mom has me on my leash, Dad with Chelsea and we get back in the car and head home. It's lunch time, we eat and take a nap and relive the whole experience as we dream. I can't quiet my soul. I don't understand.
Days continue uninterrupted until…Mom walks in with "her" in her arms. Chelsea doesn't bite her ankles. She looks different and smells of that place. Why is she here? What do I do? "Everyone outside", says Mom. Chelsea and I watch this little one explore with that big stiff thing on her neck. She's scared. Mom and Dad are in the yard with us. THAT'S something new.
We return inside and the little one trots from room to room. She gets in MY BED, curls up and falls asleep. Oh dear, that's not good. She doesn't know it's MY BED. I am anxious. Chelsea wants her to leave. She doesn't and the whole day is fraught with keeping one eye open. She is fed behind closed doors. No chance of leftovers. I'm too old for this.
She stays and just when I resign to accept her as a new family member, in walks Mom with the other one. He's wearing the same thing around his neck which causes him to trip out the door and again at the edge of the patio. Clumsy! We go through the introductions again and this time he is on my turf. He's got to understand that he is expected to pay homage. Every time he pushes, we push back. We are defending what is ours. We are defending the legacies of those who have gone before. I don't stop and consider that I too have been the outsider, for I've lived here seemingly all my life.
He stayed and now we are four. I guess it's a good fit, Mom is happy, Dad is happy and the new family members have both learned that it's MY BED. We have all been on walks, although it takes a couple of shifts. The toys are scattered about the entire downstairs and we all watch through the storm door for anything that moves.
I remember Sam and all those who joined the pack before and after me; Shadow, Pug, Heidi, Lucky, Laddy, Daisy, Kelly and McTavish. I will honor her memory and try to be the best alpha dog I can be. There's no guarantee that this new family group will remain the same for very long. Sam opened her heart and let me in.
That's the thing about boundless love. Even at my age, if you open your heart there's always room for more.
