#lifeanddeath

Lessons I Learned From My Dog

/ mamiknowseverything / 2 Comments
Muffy

Yesterday, we said goodbye to our tiny, eight pound poodle, Muffy. After a year of living with kidney failure, her seventeen-year-old body could no longer stave off the ravages of the disease and I don’t think I could be sadder. Before the pandemic, we sought every reasonable intervention to keep her alive. After subcutaneous fluids, herbal medications, laser stimulation, and acupuncture, we ended treatment in March since, due to pandemic restrictions, we were no longer able to be with her in the veterinarian’s office. We knew the risks. She was already sixteen; instead of treating her illness, our focus shifted to her quality of life and we supported her as best we could. After our decision, it was all on Muffy and, in her plucky way, she stayed alive. 

Since last January, we embarked on a year long adventure. As we posted pictures on Facebook and Instagram with the obvious hashtag, #muffysfarewelltour, friends asked, “Farewell tour?” Muffy seemed so bright, lively, and energetic, but we knew our time together was limited so we made an effort to make memories with our girl. We took day trips to South Boston’s Castle Island and Revere Beach. We drove with her in my lap to the ice cream shop, to downtown Boston to see Christmas lights, and to pick up take out, always ordering her a meal of her own. Muffy loved the pandemic phenomenon, the Zoom meeting, and she popped up on just about every call, making her a bit of a celebrity with my writing groups and assorted meetings. After it all, our favorite memory was a Covid-friendly vacation to Cape Cod, where we rented a house on a dog-friendly beach, where Muffy could run free. She loved every minute.

I thought about how I would memorialize our sweet pup in words without sounding bereft. Muffy lived a life of joy and wonder. She loved her family, her backyard, and pork chops. She entertained us with her silly antics like arranging her blue pillow and red snowflake blanket at bedtime each night, before settling in to watch Kitchen Nightmares. Every minute of caring for her, even in her last hours as we helped her cross the Rainbow Bridge, was an act of love. It was our way of repaying her undying loyalty as she padded along by our sides all these years.

Dogs may not have words but they speak to us in ways we sometimes miss in the moment. As I go through my day, my first without my tiny white shadow, I still feel Muffy here. Her memory remains palpable and real. I savor the feeling of her enduring presence while it lasts. Every move I make, I remember her–under foot, begging, and just being completely adorable. In an effort to squash my maudlin tendencies, I jotted down a few lessons Muffy taught me as a tribute to her legacy:

How to be shameless: Not a day has passed in the years since Muffy joined our family that I have showered or used the toilet without the bathroom door flying open. I always closed, not latched or locked, the door (that would have been intolerable for herself), but in the course of a pee or a shower, the door, without exception, flew open as the energetic, white fur ball burst into the room. At first, it was unnerving. In time, it became normal. On a positive note, the steam from a shower never fogged up the bathroom and the house benefitted from the infusion of moist air in the winter months. We never needed a humidifier because of Muffy.

How to share: This morning, on our kitchen table, I found the two fortune cookies left over from last night’s Chinese dinner and I laughed. I haven’t eaten my own fortune cookie since the day Muffy came to live with us, nor have most of our dinner guests over the years. She had an unnatural love of the crunchy treat, and everyone succumbed to her begging and cuteness. As I peeled off the cellophane, I thought of Muffy and, with my coffee, I ate my fortune cookie, alone and joylessly. Sharing with your best friend is so much more satisfying. 

How to start the day bright and early: My husband, Tim, usually started his morning by 6:30, after putting Muffy out and checking to make sure she had water and food. Once she was settled, Muffy was on her own and she usually honored my need for extra sleep, within limits. However, after 7:30 a.m., my slumber lived on borrowed time. Standing in my bedroom doorway, Muffy would yip twice, my signal to rise. As I followed Muffy down the hallway, her tail wagging, clearly pleased with herself, I always chuckled. Because of her, I started every day with a smile.

How to go to bed at a reasonable hour: Every night at 11 p.m., Tim would put Muffy out to do her business “for her last time” that day. After getting a sip of water, she made her way up the hall and into the den where I had just started another episode of the Ghost Whisperer or Schitt’s Creek. Having no part of this, the dog stood a few feet away, just staring. I knew what she wanted. It was bedtime. After a few minutes of visual strongarming, I would stand up and go to brush my teeth. I had a sense that she didn’t trust me to follow through with going to bed as she stood outside the bathroom door, glaring. I always succumbed to her demands, making her happy and increasing my odds of an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep. 

I fear for my future without my keeper. The odds are stacked against me ever getting up early and going to bed on time. I may eat my sadness by consuming my weight in fortune cookies. And I guess I’ll have to use the blow dryer to clear the foggy bathroom mirror. But the most important lessons I have learned in my life with Muffy are: how to love someone so much that letting go is a sacred transition through denial, sadness, and acceptance; how to do the kindest thing even when we know our hearts will break forever; and how to wake up and start the day after the first night in thirty-nine years that our house didn’t have a dog in it. Without her jingling collar, the quiet is unsettling. 

I acknowledge the feeling of emptiness will dissipate in time, but these first days of loss and longing crush my heart. Tim and I have resolved that there will be no more dogs. Muffy was the best companion, physical comedian, and pillow-blanket arranging bedmate anyone could ever ask for and she will never be replaced. We are the ultimate empty nesters–no kids, no dogs, just us. Now when I talk to myself, I can’t deflect with  “I was talking to the dog.” 

It’s gotten really quiet around here.

Muffy’s Farewell Tour

When Tragedy Strikes, Humanity Awakens

/ mamiknowseverything / 1 Comment

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A little while ago, my Apple watch alerted me to a breaking news story.  Kobe Bryant, a renowned, retired basketball great, was killed in a helicopter crash in California. While I would never claim to be a sports fan (that would be a lie), I was familiar with the name, knew of his notoriety in the sport, and felt a pang of sorrow. When someone famous dies, I immediately think back to my own interaction with their craft or their accomplishments. I remember the same feeling of sadness when Princess Diana died, when John Lennon died, when David Bowie died. But the connection to a loss doesn’t require one to be a fan. I have come to understand that all it takes to feel sad in response to a tragedy is to be human.

When a celebrity dies, our idea of immortality is shattered. Kobe, Princess Diana, and others who have achieved great fame seem to be above the pitfalls of life and death. Their greatness supersedes any vulnerability and we expect them to live forever. The image that has been created of our idols makes them larger than life and certainly larger than death. The realization that they are human, just like us, jolts us back to reality.

In this world of social media hype, news alerts and their musical introduction smacking of urgency,  and bad news overload, any breaking news can trigger the pang in my gut, not just In the case of a tragedy befalling someone famous. I’ve gotten used to the sinking feeling inside whenever I hear of something tragic. I wait for more details: how many were killed in the earthquake in Turkey, how many animals were lost in the Australian fires, how many died in the most recent school shooting? Yet, while I worry about these outcomes, I fear that I have become a voyeur lost in this swirl of information. Perhaps the purity of my interest and concern is tainted by the need for details regarding the shock and gore of it all. And maybe, I have succumbed to the adage, “There but for the grace of God…”

The uncertainty we know in life causes the unpredictability of death. Choices we make, or others make, can cause our demise. Kobe chose to fly in a helicopter today but, for us, things as simple as merging on to the highway versus taking the surface roads can be our last decision. Another driver’s choice to text while driving can be the reason a parent or a child doesn’t return home one day. A lifetime of cigarette smoking may or may not result in deadly lung cancer. The possibility of being caught in the crossfire of gunshots or involved in an act of terrorism has become less of a long shot.  Life is full of pitfalls and ways to die. It’s a crap shoot, for sure.

To be human is to understand the fragility of being and remaining alive. When I hear people say that they wake up in the morning and thank God for another day, the thought gives me pause. I can’t really say I profess my thanks for not being dead in the morning; instead, I wonder if maybe we should be giving thanks for surviving at the end of any given day. Considering the minefield that is daily existence, it truly is an accomplishment to make it through to bedtime unscathed.

There must be a bigger plan, one that spares us until it is our turn. Tonight, Kobe Bryant will not kiss his children good night. I feel sad for him and for his family.  Yet, the initial shock of the news has already passed, as it does and, once the shock becomes a reality, life goes on for the rest of us. We are once again reminded that, while today may not be ‘the day’, we will each have a last day. It’s sobering, but death, like life, is a part of being human.

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