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Heart stones: |
MY DESK IS a mess. Books on
Time cleaning can be better spent reading, with a big, warm dog stretched across my lap. Did anyone ever lie gasping their last breath thinking, "I should have cleaned up"? Does history record anyone ever wheezing out a death rattle of " Bring me the vacuum"?
My book collection reflects an abiding interest in how to cope with the agony of grieving for beloved dogs whose lives have ended. Understanding the emptiness of facing the death of a beloved pet, and our conscious and unconscious need to examine memories of dogs that have loved us, is a common theme in conversations with men and women who have been graced to know a dog as best friend and companion.
Dog people share an unbreakable bond of understanding the myriad ways that human lives are made rich by experiencing a bond with the canine species. When you meditate on how dogs and humans become true family members, our will and our need to share our lives with another species may strike you as miraculous.
For anyone requiring proof of this unbreakable human-canine bond, we have to look no further than into the faces of humans separated from their canine family members during any life-threatening disaster. During the horrors of the flooding of New Orleans, news coverage showed an exhausted, frantic man swimming in circles refusing to be rescued by any boat that would not include his dog. This reminded me of all the people who so love their dogs that parting with them while they were alive cannot be countenanced. Whether logical, wise or advisable, many dog lovers' worst nightmare is to be unable to protect their pet.
Several years after my best dog friend, Abroham, died, a non-dog-owning person asked me, "How long do you think it takes to grieve for a dog?" This remains a question I cannot easily answer. Three years passed before the mere mention of Abe's death would not reach into my heart and rip the scab of solace right off the wound of my grief. Five full years have passed since Abe left our family, but the question of "how long does it take to grieve?" never exits my thoughts completely.
I will tell you how long it takes to grieve: It takes as long as it takes.
I no longer feel my heart literally breaking open when I think Abe's name. I can go to a dog show and watch big, powerful, liver-colored spaniels stride around the show ring without my young Abe leaping to life on the screen of my mind's eye. I can allow myself to look at Abe's doggy wheelchair that veterinarians who loved him helped me to find to assist his dear withering hind legs to walk a few weeks longer than they might have (k9carts.com) or (doggoncarts .com). I can come across a picture of him, taken during his last week, and acknowledge that his face was strained with the ravages of age.
To this day, when I see a bottle of electrolyte sports drink, I hesitate in the grocery aisle to thank heaven for Dr. Sheri Bakerian, who suggested that maybe Abe would drink that one week when he stopped drinking and I thought the end had really come. I can hear Dr. Frank Wagner, who had taken the best of care of him since he was a tiny pup, assure me, "You'll know when it's time," as I struggled with: Will I know when I must let him go? I see Dr. Jordan Kocen looking at Abe during what turned out to be Abe's very last acupuncture treatment, gently saying, "Abe may be waiting for you to let him know you are able to let him go." Finally, I recall the gentle kindness of the veterinarian who gave him the final gift of peace as she euthanized him, shedding tears as openly as the rest of us who held him in our arms and felt his life pass from his elderly body.
As time passes, the pall of grieving lifts. The crushing emptiness of loss slowly releases your heart and mind from its crushing grip. Memories of all the perfect and contented times before his body wore out and his time came to leave begin to replace the fresh pain of wondering how your life will go on when your dog friend has died. You learn not to delve too deeply into wishing to see his dear face one more time.
A peace from the fresh heartbreak of letting go seeps in as you lie awake, tears seeping involuntarily down the sides of your face, wondering if you will ever sleep in a room without him. You begin to accept that the dog who was your best companion lived every moment of life allotted to him.
Perhaps we are afraid to ride the waves of our grieving process for fear that distancing our hearts from the pain of grief may result in losing memories of a great companion. Every person's journey as he moves forward to celebrate his pet's life, while accepting the inevitability of death, follows a very personal path.
For me, I found great solace in remembering Abe's life with permanent memorials. A few months before Abe died, I brought home an ornate concrete bench with carved lions that reminded me of Abe's great strength and majestic presence. I vividly remember going out to Pine Hollow Nursery to search for a bench, because I needed somewhere to sit in the middle of the night when Abe gave me the signal we had to go out.
It can take an old boy a long, long time to gather his strength and sniff the yard until he finds the perfect spot to "go." Many nights I sat on that bench watching him sniff his yard, as I wondered, "Will this be his last night?"
After Abe died, it seemed fitting to turn the area around his bench into a memorial garden. Spotsylvania County stained-glass artist Karen Jones (jonesstones.com) made a perfect likeness of Abe, and has since created steppingstones of many dog faces that I have been allowed the good fortune to love. While I sit on my Abe bench, I examine Abe, Izobel, Bonnie, Quinnton, Vivien and Gabriel's faces beautifully captured in stained glass.
Grieving often finds solace in quiet contemplation of the life that has ended. My Abroham bench and steppingstone garden are a daily reminder to me that grief does not go away, but memories of lives lived remain alive forever.
SARAH A. FERRELL of Spotsylvania County runs Dogs Manners and Obedience. Contact her by mail at The Free Lance-Star, 616 Amelia St., Fredericksburg, Va., 22401; by fax at 373-8455; or by e-mail to her attention at
Email: gwoolf@freelancestar.com.
