Ten-Finger Exercises

R.I.P. Seamus-- there's less pain now.

I cannot get it through my head that, if I look out my bedroom door onto the screened porch, Seamus won’t be out there. So over and over, from any room in the house but especially that one, I think, “I’d better go check on the boy,” or “I’d better go see if the boy wants to go on his walk.” And then I feel the squeamy contraction in the bottom of my throat or my belly that remind me he isn’t there any more. Isn’t going to be there any more either.

The porch looks neat. I put away the boxes that made a little cubby for him out of the draft. I’d put a fan in the sliding window to at least stir up a breeze, washed the window sills of their dust collection, vacuumed instead of just swept the threadbare carpet, picked up the assorted pillows he liked, tossing them to the laundry room. There’s a brand new just opened 25# sack of dog food I can take to the shelter, and a few cans of store brand chicken loaf for dogs, his favorite.

I’m gonna cry again now. I don’t know why it comes up or when it’s going to. It made no sense when I cried yesterday, blubbering as hard as I did when my first marriage broke up. Seamus couldn’t enjoy life or even our company much, and so we couldn’t enjoy him either. So why does it hurt so much to let go?

I don’t know why I even want to analyze it, except that it feels different to me than other losses. I’ve had cats die, but never dogs. We’ve always had to have them euthanized. I thought about waiting until it happened naturally, about how much easier it would be than making the life or death decision myself. But he was hurting, and would hurt more, and I couldn’t make him go to the animal hospital alone, be sedated to have his head shaved so they could treat the skin that was so sore from the cyst drainage, and maybe still not know exactly where he was or how to lie down. He’d never be able to hear us. His arthritic limbs would never be youngt again. I couldn’t promise that any treatment would be enough better that he could enjoy life very well again.

Here’s the strange part to me: I observed myself crying, but what was I crying for? I had loved him, and I still do, and he loved me. Nothing changed. I can’t put my finger on it, but it felt unreasonable. He was a free spirit, and I didn’t own that spirit, so I didn’t lose it. The love we had together still exists. As a Taoist friend told me at the death of another dog, “His spirit has been released into the everywhere.” I didn’t find that at all helpful at the time, but now I do.

I’ve been reading A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle. He describes our ego based consciousness, how we attach to things and ideas to identify who we are, and that isn’t really who we are. We can’t keep from making those attachments, but we can consciously observe them and take away their power to limit or inflate us. You’ll have to read the book to understand what I’m saying, but I observed myself so attached to this dog, to the idea that I was the owner of an unusual dog, a Bouvier, a calm, undemanding critter much like myself. In the observing, I was able to let go, to let Seamus be himself and me to still be me even without him.

I’ll tell you, it feels more natural to cry, which I’ve done plenty of; but it feels better during those occasional moments when I’m observing myself without judgment and coming out whole.

Bill dug the hole behind the big stone and under the magnolia where Seamus used to like to initiate play with a few fast digs. Nothing ever grows there. Now it will. Bill pulled lots of handfuls of grass, the kind Seamus used to like to eat, and told me to get flowers, and we covered him with them before shoveling in the dirt. It was a much nicer mental picture that way, and has actually come to mind and helped me remember and deal with the finality of it all. I spread shade loving wildflower seeds over it today and will keep them watered and hope for a good crop.

Thanks for all your good wishes everybody. They helped a lot.