Dog of our Heart

REFLEX
When I heard the jingle of a collar as I was making tea this morning, a hopeful flash raced through my body before my mind had time to stop it. KEESHA’S BACK! Of course she’s not; she’s dead. Transitioned. Crossed over. It was my daughter's dog's collar. My body keeps anticipating what my mind knows is not true. Grief has many faces. I’m a little confused, really tired and have no sense of time. I cleared my schedule to give myself the space I need to honor my companion, which includes writing these highlights of our time with Keesha.

STROKE OF LUCK

When Bella was 6, she started riding lessons at a local riding center, Mita Sunke (which means “my horse” in Oglala Sioux). Lizzie was 2 and would observe Bella’s lessons with me. The first time we set eyes on Keesha she was tied near the parking lot, and she dropped down and rolled over for a belly rub. We kneeled and stroked her soft, red coat. When I looked into her eyes I thought: “You are my dog!” But that was impossible! She belonged to the wonderful family who ran Mita Sunke. I walked over to Sandy, one of the barn owners, and commented: “I just LOVE your dog.”

“Do you want her?” she asked point blank.

Skid in Broadside, Balls to the Wall

I am watching my 16 year old dog sleeping soundly – eyes pressed closed, her head encircled by a soft cone to keep her from gnawing on wounds. She has days, maybe weeks to live. I wish she would just go to sleep one day, outside in the sun, and never wake up, instead of slowly losing function. She’s not in a huge amount of pain yet, but there are moments like when she can’t stand in the morning and I help her up and hold her belly until I feel her legs able to carry her weight. She is still eating although she’s picky. I’ve never known Keesha to turn down anything!

Today I lay on the back porch with her and sobbed. Her imminent death brings up the people and pets I’ve lost, as well as those I will lose; my own mortality… failed relationships and missed opportunities. I let the grief grab hold and swallow me until it spits me out. It’s the only way to clear it.

Whale Tale

Today, shortly before Savasana – or the period of relaxation after a strenuous yoga class - my instructor played music that featured whale calls. With my eyes closed, and my legs twisted left while my torso twisted right, I was immediately transported to the sea. In 1996, after a day of whale watching, I was snorkeling off the shore in Maui when I heard whale songs. Likely, the Humpback whales were more than a mile away, but the water carried the sound so clearly that I scanned, wide-eyed in my mask, 360 degrees to see if I could make out any massive forms. Their bellow resonated in my heart, and I knew that I would never forget that moment, that at the end of my life I would hold it as an image when I am being carried from this world to the next. [Image courtesy Animal Planet site]

Having evidently thoughtfully chosen that piece of music, the instructor interrupted my thoughts by saying that whale calls can be healing; that we might consider listening to their songs as we slowly switched our twist to the other side, earth bound and 1,029 miles from the closest sea.

I remember the feeling when the boat’s engine was cut in the vicinity of whales and seeing

The Heart will Lead Us Home, and Maybe to Italy!

My sister-in-law, Mai Ling, who is studying the principles of quantum physics, asked me if it was an accident that I won a two-week trip to Italy for two from my local radio station just by clicking on a link? Years ago I joined KBCO 97.3 as an “interactive member” online when I hoped to participate in a pre-sale for Dave Matthews tickets. I found out after the Italian drawing that I was the only one chosen out of thousands of interactive members to make it to the final 10. The other 9 where chosen out of many people who had been the ninth caller at an assigned time over the previous week. My girls and I were all on our way to eat some Mexican food. We whooped and hollered and screamed with joy when I heard

Just How Old Am I!?

I LOVE my old dog, but man does she STINK! I had to turn around in the car today to make sure she wasn’t dead and rotting on the back seat. I love her so much it hurts. Keesha is 16 now. We used to call her “sled dog” because of her thick coat and the way that she could run many miles no problem. My faithful companion for 15 years, she has lived in six homes with me, survived two cats, two horses and a goat, and she was the fuzzy bear I hugged after my divorce and subsequent love lost. I’ve cried a gallon of tears into her red coat, and she’s brought me endless joy. A Lab-Chow, she is both food-motivated and obstinate. She loves people like a Lab, and she has gone through several training programs. Keesha performs many tricks and even executed agility feats when she was young. But, put a little white dog in front of her and she would eat it no matter what I say. Sadly, her Chow half thinks “Bischon Frise” is an appetizer and tennis balls are for, well... tennis.

But, this isn’t an entry about my dog. It’s about my own recognition that I’m aging. I can do all the hand stands and push ups and double turns that I want to because my body is still cooperating, but when I look into the mirror, my wrinkled face still shocks me. Hey... who put that head on that body? I’m furious about it for a second because then I remind myself how damn lucky I am to still be dancing and performing and I feel like a little feisty and grateful kid again.

When I tell people things like “I’ve been divorced 11 years and I was married 18” or “I’ve lived in Colorado 17 years, but I also lived in New York, California, Florida and Arizona” people ask: “How old ARE you?” When you get to be my age you see your life in eras: the bath in grandma’s sink era, the school girl in braids and uniform era, the I lost all that weight and boys like me era, the oh shit I have eating disorders era, the I think I’m fully self actualized and my parents know shit era, the knight in shining armor “I do” era, the how long will my husband put up with my starving artist era, the oh my God no one told me my kid would have public tantrums era, the oh she’s so cute, let’s have another era, the why can’t everything stay the same dark-night-of-the-soul era. Jeez I just wrote a memoir. How old AM I?!?

Now I’m in this era where I want to be a channel for light and love… in whatever capacity I’m supposed to do that. I’m getting a Masters in counseling and I feel called to explore my “shadow” in nature programs. Part of me is having a tantrum and just wants to be put up in a 5 star hotel permanently, but the other side of me reminds myself that I know too much to go back to the way I was – to the way I was living an unnecessarily consumptive life that distracted me from deeper feelings, from facing my shadow, from giving back. It’s what I’ve chosen this time around.

But I’m entitled to a five star massage every now and then! Aging may stink but so far not as badly as my sweet, old dog.