It has been weeks—no change that to
months, since I have been able to settle down to write or do much of anything
that requires quiet reflection. Keeping busy has been the order of most days.
Since returning from two weeks in Israel on May 10th, we have done a kitchen renovation
as well as painting the majority of the living area of our home. Then there was
the ten day trip to CA—six of which Chris and I spent taking care of the four
and 18 month old grandkids so Justin and Farr could celebrate their tenth
anniversary—with Melanie and Ben joining us for the last three days of family
time.
With the hot beautiful weather our
boat has served as a virtual bed and breakfast -- friends and family aboard
cruising to destinations far and near. It has been a full time and yet I have
been unsettled, edgy and, I have to admit, not easy to live with. Pinpointing
the source of my malaise is not a problem. All I can say is that it is all the
dogs’ fault.
If you have known me in the last
fourteen years, then you probably know that Chris and I have been dog owners
for that time. In 1998 we adopted our first Black Lab, Farland, from Guiding
Eyes for the Blind. We called him our “flunky” although the official status
was “released”. An eighteen-month-old feisty guy, Farland was
always his own person. An incredibly handsome strong-willed soul, he became our
early boating companion, earning the title “best boat dog ever.” From the very
beginning, he went to work with me every day, settling down under my desk,
surprising parishioners as they came into my office. Gentle with children, he
became the office mascot and always knew to remind me to take a break once in a
while.
Then in 2003, Chris and I
completely lost our minds as we adopted a second eighteen-month-old release dog
named Opal. While also a Black Lab, in many ways she was the opposite of her
brother. More delicate in stature and
constitution, she was a love bug wanting to cuddle and be close while her
brother kept his own space. Right away, Opal joined forces at work and it was
Opal who would cuddle with Melanie when she came home from her hospitalizations.
While never comfortable on the boat the way Farland was, she loved to dive off
swim platform—preferably on top of Chris when he surfaced. Underway, she was
happiest shadowing me as I put our fenders and lines before settling down under
my feet on her pillow.
Most weekends, summer and winter,
Chris and I would walk with our two pups in tow. Covering miles no matter the
season, we hiked through the woods and along the harbor, often riding home on
the ferry. They boated with us
everywhere, and since we only travel by foot once we hit the shore, they tagged
along, swimming out to retrieve a stick or sitting on a patio as we grabbed
food. And everywhere we went they introduced us people.
 |
| Farland and Opal Waiting for dinner on the boat |
Last summer, at age fourteen, Farland
began to slow down, neurological problems causing him to stumble. Gradually
over the fall he declined and could no longer take our long walks. Watching
Farland slowly failing, we were not surprised when he died late last November,
just shy of his fifteenth birthday. He was an old guy and ready to go and while
Chris and I prepared ourselves for months for the inevitable, for days
afterwards we walked around wondering at the shocking realization that a life
could be so very present one moment and gone the next.
After Farland died, everyone asked
if Opal was sad; we could honestly say that she did not seem to be. While
together all the time, the two pups had never cuddled with each other, choosing
instead to bond with us. In fact, if anything, she seemed to perk up. After
having to slow down with her brother for so long, at nine, she became
positively puppyish, prancing around with her toys that that we normally kept
put away since Farland had a tendency to just chew them up. Every morning all I
had to say is, “Opie, where’s your toy?!” and off she would go to find one
charging back, willing me to chase her. We walked, every morning for miles, and
she became my shadow. If I went into my room to meditate, I knew that within
moments, she would jump up on the bed settling in for a half hour nap. When I
was sitting down, she was at my feet and when Chris and I went out, she slept
on the carpet beside my computer chair.
I won’t go into the details of her demise
except to say that while her vet was beginning to get worried about her kidney
function, on the day we left for Israel, she and I walked three mile and she
seemed energetic and happy. But four
days into our trip we began to receive worried messages from Heidi, who with
her husband Mark and their two boys, watched over our dogs for years. Opal was
refusing to eat; as the week progressed it was clear she was getting sicker. After
ten days, many emails, and phone calls with her Heidi and her vets, she had to
be admitted to the hospital; Opal was dying.
Chris and I made the decision to
leave our trip three days early and return home. Heidi and Mark (saints
throughout this whole ordeal) brought her to their house to give her more
loving until we could get home. After almost twenty excruciating travel hours,
we rushed from the airport to find her curled up on their couch. Barely lifting
her head, Opal gave us only the smallest of tail-wags. Carrying her home we
arranged her in her usual place in our bed right next to my head the three of us
sleeping fitfully through the night. With
pain overtaking her, we took her back to the animal hospital that had treated
her since she was a pup. We put out the word; staff members were welcome to
stop by where she lay on the floor flanked by Chris and me. Lab techs, vets and
even the front office ladies drifted in to give her hugs and say goodbye. Opal
died on May 11 only five months after her brother.
Now for the first time in thirteen
years, we no longer hear the jingle of collars and patter of feet when we open
the door. Since Opal died, a part of myself has been shut off. For weeks in the
middle of the night, I would put out a hand to pet her head waking only to feel
emptiness. I filled my walks with phone calls so that I would not have to think
about who is missing. When the two Black Dog flags on the front of our boat
shredded on a recent trip, I could hardly breathe. Even with all the hubbub of
the last two months, life feels dulled and sadder.
Of course there have been so many
moments of grace as friends dropped notes or just listened to us talk. Our kids
sent flowers as did our animal hospital. A friend slipped me a tiny metal token
with a paw print on one side and the words, “Always With You” on the other. A
wise vet offered words that helped explain the deep nature of the sadness I
feel saying that the death of a pet is different from so many other deaths,
because the nature of our relationship with our animals is one based on
dependency. Unlike other human relationships, animals are never supposed
to grow up and move away. The relationship is predicated on constancy and
presence; separation is not really part of the equation. But of course, ultimately
separation comes with the finality of death.
It is gradually getting a bit
easier now, just please do not tell me to get another dog to make me feel
better or get over it. We may, or we may not, eventually do that, but right
now, I just need some more time to heal. Writing this is a step. Walking
quietly is another. Maybe this week I will even be able to pray again.
