Last weekend, ten days shy of the three year anniversary of losing my first dog to brain cancer, I lost my second dog, a rescued hunting beagle named Louis. My heart aches because of the violent way in which he left this world, but seeing him at peace helped me to take a deep breath and let him go. Once he wasn't suffering anymore, I was able to cuddle him one last time without fear that I might aggravate the arthritis in his spine or pinch his tail that had been clipped off at the end, probably buy a hunting trap or a truck door closed too quickly. Holding his precious furry body one last time was a moment I will carry with me forever.
Pet loss is visceral. We see them at our feet every morning, cuddled up next to us on our bed or sofa at night. They come to us with that familiar pitter-patter when we arrive home. They seek us out for extra cuddles when they know we need it. They gently (or not so gently in Louis' case) take treats from our fingers and lift their little chins for scratches at bedtime. My beagle was 14, had many aches and pains, and very progressive lung disease, but he trotted along on our short walks with as much gaiety and deep joy as one could imagine. He wiggled on his back in the grass whenever he could, what dog behaviorists call a "happy dance" or celebration. For those of us who consider our pets family, the heartbreak of their loss can echo in our day-to-day more deeply than a grandparent or uncle or friend because they are a constant source of love and that love is a daily ritual for us and them-- one of life's most poignant partnerships. Why else was Argus the only being that recognized Odysseus in disguise when he returned home after more than ten years? Our dogs have a deep,personal knowing of us and see the very best in us. And that loss, whether it's from disease, old age, or a tragic accident, is tremendous.
I'd like to share with you the message that Louis sent to me from Heaven before he died. Yes, I said before because time doesn't really exist in the beyond, so our loved ones can visit us anytime. I explained this to Matt (my husband) by saying that if I die before him then maybe I will visit him as rainbow on a hard day in high school, or a butterfly on his knee as a child.
Anyway, about an hour before Louis died, a hummingbird was trapped in our garage. He was trying to get out of the closed window, so I went over to open it, but instead of flying off and through, it flew directly down into the small space that had been created between the open bottom part of the window and the top part. The beautiful little bird was face to face with me. I had never seen one so still, and I noticed the mesmerizing color of his wings and the rapid, panicked breathing in his tiny chest. I tried to move the window to allow him to fly out, but it just contorted his body. I whispered and then yelled "No! No! Hold on!" and my girls came rushing in at my desperate pleas. "What's wrong?" they asked, and we all begged the tiny bird to hold on. I used all my strength to pull the bottom window away from the top part so that he would use the space to fly up and out. Maybe 30 seconds passed, but it felt like hours as my brain tried to find a logical fix and fight against the panic and fear of losing this sweet creature in front of my children. We all yelled, "Please! Fly up!" and my oldest daughter and I began to cry as the bird's breathing slowed. Then, all the sudden, he was free. And he was SO fast that he was up and over the roof of our neighbor's house and deep in the clouds before we could even blink. He was free. And now Louis is too. My struggle to keep him here: the urgency, the fear, the panic, the begging, the physical intervention at his death was traumatic and heartbreaking, but in the end it freed him. He sent that hummingbird to teach me that, to prepare me for what lay ahead for that day and that weekend in the hospital.
Thank you for loving me so well, Saint Louis. I hope you're running after bunnies and taking breaks to wiggle in the grass up there. You were an absolute gift to me. I hope I was for you too.
An excerpt on dogs from Wheel of the Year: The Age of Stone
available for presale on my website and at Amazon and Barnes and Noble
Chapter 26
"Obediently, Aric pulled his cloak over his shoulders and began to lace his over-the-knee snow boots by the door. I had organized everything onto wooden pallets that were easy to stack and carry or pull with leather straps across the fresh-fallen snow. Aric followed me outside dutifully, showing the most subtle of smiles as a hint of his amusement at being my apprentice. “Maybe we should get you a dog for this,” Aric jested as I passed him with long strides, kicking my cloak and skirts up in a flurry of snow as I walked with intention toward the houses that needed care.
"I had a dog.” Falcon was really my father’s dog, and he had left me not too many years after my father had, gone to die by himself in the woods. “ I made him a funerary pyre at the cliffs after we found him in the oak grove..I explained, remembering that awful day, silently replaying it in my head, thinking of the heart shaped spot I had kissed on falcons forehead before the flames went up. “I’m sorry you weren’t with your dog, Ailsa. I’m sure you wanted to hold him by your hearth and kiss him as he departed the world.” He kissed my forehead.
“He was partly tame but still a bit wild. He needed to die alone in the woods like an old, sick wolf would, and I couldn’t begrudge him that.” I rubbed the small of my back, which had begun to ache as the day’s labor wore on.
Aric chuckled through his nose as we entered the house. “No, I don’t suppose you could begrudge him. He sounds just like you.”
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