We take their daily presence in our lives so much for granted – the way they lie beside us on the couch, sit by our feet, follow us from room to room, accompany us running errands and on long trips in the car, walk beside us through the woods and on the beach, add their rhythmic breathing to ours throughout the night -- until they are gone, and then the emptiness that fills our homes and our hearts feels almost unbearable.
Duma
Yesterday, my nephew and his family had to say goodbye to their 14-year-old dog, Duma. He had been a sweet and joyful presence in our extended family’s lives, always there to greet us when we would visit at his home or when we would gather at our family cabin in Michigan. He was a generous host to my dogs when we would visit over the years and a sweet walking companion to me. He joined their family when their oldest was still little and wanted a dog. He was the family pet and playmate for all three of the children, and he watched silently as one by one, they grew up, left for college, and left home. He would rejoice when they would return during Christmas break or summer holidays, and sadly wag goodbye as they left again. Now the youngest is heading to college in a couple of weeks and I suspect Duma knew his job was finished. Afte one last hurrah at the family cabin, he declined rapidly, the tumor growing in his abdomen making it too painful to eat or move, so they granted him the merciful gift of ending his suffering. His absence now so present. The emptiness of their home extends out through all of our hearts. I held my dog closer and longer today.
My parents never let us have a dog when we were growing up, but every one of the four of us got a dog as soon as we grew up and moved away from home. Most of our kids have, too. Orion, Juniper, Sam, Lucie, Charlie, Ben, Missy, Buddy, Funny, Dancer, Rogue, Kafka, Maggie, Copper, Luna, Kaios, Gracie, Lola, Bear, and of course, Duma. I know I’ve missed some. Such an extended pack we’ve had. They are all family.
What is this pull in us to share our lives with dogs? Certainly, it is primal in us, the human-canine bond going back over 30,000 years. We were not meant to live isolated among only our own species. Our lives are enriched by all the ways we interact with species other than our own – why else would so many put out bird feeders or spend early mornings in wait for sitings of rare birds, delight in the antics of squirrels and chipmunks in our back yards, feel kinship with the deer who just crossed our path, watch in amazement as the butterfly emerges from the chrysalis and the dragonfly from the nymph and ants carry a morsel three times their size back to the anthill, not to mention the many animals we bring into our homes. How bleak and lonely our lives would be without these beings in our world. But there is something unique about our bond with dogs.
Is it the way we understand each other? The way we live so companionably together? They adapt themselves to our rhythms, wake when we wake, sleep when we sleep, are up for a walk whenever we’re ready to go. As puppies they are a bundle of annoyance, utter delight, and unconditional love rolled into one, and as they grow into maturity they come to read our every mood, offering up their comfort, their delight, their solace depending on our needs. They understand us in ways no other human ever could. They know so much and respond from their hearts.
Juniper and I had a telepathic relationship. She was more wild than domesticated and would disappear for most of our walks together, only to reappear when I was ready to go home. My husband laughed at my regular attempts to call her with my mind when she seemed long gone, but it always was far more effective than calling her with my voice. She knew that her brother, Orion, was dying of liver cancer long before he ever showed symptoms. She moved out of the bedroom we shared a few weeks before he stopped eating – our first clue. He died a week later, and she moved back in. When I was pregnant with my son, I told her I didn’t know if I could find enough room in my heart for him so filled was it with love for her. She released me to love him fully a few weeks after he was born.
Sam was simply steadfast – the calm, soothing presence we needed to get us through the tumultuous days of a new baby, hospitalizations, being shocked by the defibrillator over and over, waiting for the transplant. Nothing rattled him. He was our gentle giant. He was so easy he never wore a collar. We could count on him to stay with us through anything and anywhere. In his last days, he told me when he was ready to go, but also said that he wanted to stay with me -- his ashes mixed with mine. And so, they sit on a shelf in my closet, waiting to be reunited with mine when the day comes.
Lucie was, well, Lucie. Completely unruly and a bundle of joy. She especially loved children and they loved her. She had a special bond with them. She stole my son’s heart, especially in her later years. When my son and his friends were off to college, every time he came home she would hang out with him and his friends into the wee hours of the mornings. She loved life and shared her love with everyone, still wagging her tail at the vet when he came to release her from her suffering from bone cancer.
Then there was Charlie. He called me to come get him. He waited a week after I’d found the ad in the paper for a Golden Newfie, my dream dog, and couldn’t come get him right away. I said if he’s still there in a week . . . and he was, the only one left, just waiting for me. Covered in pine sap and a bundle of worms, his poor little belly so distended. It took three different kinds of dewormer to clear him and he nearly died. I stayed by his side all night and he never forgot the loyal bond between us created that night. He was particularly sensitive to the most vulnerable among us. Sitting on the dock at our family cabin, he always had his eye on whoever the youngest one in the water was, ready to jump in and pull them out if necessary. When my sister had hip replacement surgery, her husband was concerned she might trip over Charlie if he came with me, which he did, but he knew she was fragile, and placed himself by her side, ever watchful of her every move, being sure to be out of her way, but also ready to rescue her if she fell. When we placed my father-in-law’s ashes in the cemetery next to his wife’s, when wondering if one of us should say something, Charlie murmured a soft goodbye, and as we started to leave, Charlie returned, bent his head over the small grave and bowed reverently. He knew. He never wanted to leave me and did not go easily into that dark night. He lives in my heart to this day.
And then he led me to his doppelganger – a smaller version of himself, but the same sweet face. Even the vet assistant said, “It’s a mini Charlie!,” when she first saw him. Ben’s trust of me was immediate and he seemed already to know all the things we’d taught Charlie – to drop his inside ball when he went outside and his outside ball when he came in, not to jump on the counters or eat food left within easy reach, to ask for permission to get on the living room couch, and to jump off the bed onto his own beside us when the lights went out. Ben knows me inside and out. He is beside me to comfort me when I am sad and joins in excitedly when my grandson and I are playing chase around the house. In every bout of illness I’ve had since he’s been with me, he has lain at the foot of my bed for hours and hours. His presence at these times is such a comfort as to be almost indescribable. It is healing in and of itself. Our first and longest separation – it was only three days – was when I was hospitalized with a severe infection. Our reunion was utter joy, and relief. We are that grounding presence for each other.
And perhaps it is that. Dogs are grounding, centering, allowing us to stay in touch with our animal nature, with our knowing and our hearts without the distortions of our prefrontal cortexes. They connect with us at a heart level. Their presence is reassuring, comforting, intimate without words. It may seem that they depend on us, but we rely on them so much more. They are a constant in an often chaotic world. So, when they must leave us, the emptiness is vast.
Ben has been lying near me the whole time I’ve been writing this, attentive to my every move, undoubtedly to my thoughts as well. The loss of Duma has renewed my gratitude for Ben’s steadfast presence. Whenever I begin my day with the Haudenosaunee prayer of Thanksgiving, when I come to giving thanks to the four-leggeds, I always offer up a special prayer for Ben and all the others who came before. For their gentle presence that has added so much grace, joy, and love to my life, I am so very grateful.
