Bones Would Rain from the Sky Read online

  Bewildered myself, I hastily explained that in Kelly’s excitement she had probably not noticed anything and just thought she was going for a ride. Before my friend could see through the flimsiness of my answer, I continued in my very best dog trainer’s voice, the one filled with confident assurance that students will follow my instructions: “Now is a good time to use all that training Kelly has. Why don’t you put her on a down stay near the grave while we move Blaze?” Numbly, my friend walked off with Kelly, leaving me looking in amazement at the paw-prints still visible on the blanket over Blaze. As I reached in, I whispered an apology to the dead dog. “Who knew Golden Retrievers didn’t take funerals as seriously as German Shepherds do?”

  At last,, Blaze lay in the grave, her body arranged with care so that she looked comfortably asleep. As we gazed down at this fine old dog, we cried a little more and said a few prayers. “Let me finish this now,” I gently suggested, but my friend reached out to stop me. “Wait,” she said. “There is something missing. Blaze always loved her tennis balls, and I’d like to bury one with her.” She began to cry again but struggled to speak through her sobs. “That way, I’ll be sure that she’s playing ball up in heaven.” This started my tears again, and I just waved a hand toward the house, indicating that she should go find a tennis ball.

  Through all this, Kelly had quietly lain near us. Tired of crying, I called Kelly to me, playing with her a little as we waited for my friend to return. I saw Kelly’s eyes brighten when she saw the tennis ball in her owner’s hand, but I quickly discouraged her interest with a quiet “Leave it.” With a small sigh of regret, Kelly sat down at the grave’s edge, watching as my friend lovingly placed the bright new ball near Blaze’s muzzle. Brushing dirt from her hands and jeans, my friend took a deep, ragged breath as she looked down at her old friend’s body. Turning to give her a hug, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Kelly, leaping into the grave. In perfect unison, my friend and I exclaimed in shocked tones, “Kelly!” There was no guilt or shame in the dog as she stood on Blaze’s body, tail madly wagging, triumphantly holding the ball in her mouth. Her message was crystal clear and contained a goofy wisdom we both understood: Life goes on, so why waste a perfectly good tennis ball?

  REMEMBERING THE WAY HOME

  After a lifetime with animals, I believe that animals are aware of and understand death. Though some may choose to interpret an animal’s quiet acceptance of another’s death as evidence there is no awareness, there is another interpretation that better fits what I have experienced. Animals accept death for what it is—a natural process that none of us may escape. I believe that animals have a deep connection to the eternal rhythms of spirit and the universe, a connection that we have as well, but ours is corrupted with complex overlays of knowledge, fear and civilization that draw us ever further from the natural tides of life and death.

  There are those who point to the animal’s lack of fear in the presence of dying and death as proof that animals have no awareness of death. It has long seemed to me an odd and telling supposition that an awareness of death must equal a fear of death. This is not to say that animals do not die fearfully—they sometimes do, as do we. This is not to say that they readily give up their hold on life. Just as we do, animals struggle, sometimes mightily, to hang on to life. I have held many animals as they fought, sometimes successfully, sometimes in vain, the battle that we all eventually must lose. But I have also seen animals welcome death without fear. Because I was there, riding the moments down the homestretch to the final heartbeat at the wire, I can say that I have seen the awareness in their eyes.

  John’s first dog, a Golden named MacIntosh, had spent his entire life unable to even look at any needle. Though a brave dog in so many ways, when the vet prepared a routine vaccine or approached to take a little blood for a test, Mac would always look away, his head turned and his eyes closed until the procedure was complete. He was fourteen years old when a tumor on his spleen ruptured. Though we were unaware of this particular tumor, we had been fighting another cancerous growth for several months and had known for quite a while that Mac’s time with us was growing short. When he collapsed that last day, we were not sure why, but it was clear that Mac was tired of fighting. Unwilling to surrender hope, we rushed him to the veterinarian, but as Mac’s eyes had already told us, the prognosis was not good. We stood agonizing over the choices that lay before us: Put Mac through difficult surgery with only a very slim chance he would survive the surgery, or let him go quietly without further pain or struggle. Looking back at this good dog’s life, gazing into his eyes with a question no one wants to ask, we knew he had already given us all that he had to give. As the veterinarian prepared the needle, we held Mac in our arms, nodding mutely when the doctor asked if we were ready. Whatever doubts we had about our decision vanished with Mac’s last message to us. As the needle approached his leg, Mac turned his head to look at it, his eyes calm and unworried, watching as it found his vein. He was ready. He laid his head in John’s hand and fell asleep for the last time.

  MacIntosh died as he had lived, without fear, taking each moment as it came, and welcoming death as the release of his spirit. Animals offer important lessons on being in the moment, even when it is the last. Our fearfulness about death and the process of dying, though understandable, may be unnecessary. Taoist philosopher Chuang-tzu asked, “How do I know that love of life is not a delusion after all? How do I know but that he who dreads death is not as a child who has lost his way and does not know his way home?”

  NO REGRETS

  I cannot say how McKinley died—I was not there and so do not know if he welcomed death or fought against it. When I found his body lying at the back door, there was no fear on his face, only a surprised look, as if death had caught him unaware. For a blessed, fleeting moment, I thought he was simply sprawled out on his side as he often was after a good romp in the yard. But that moment was only a heartbeat, and then I knew, even as I stepped toward him, long before I touched him. McKinley had found the way home. Grief mixed with relief. This was the moment I had dreaded, the moment I had anticipated with so many tears. The grieving had begun a long time ago, in a veterinarian’s office, with a puppy in my arms. The waiting was over; now, at least for a while, I could push death’s hovering presence away from me again.

  There was also elation, difficult to explain. Stroking his head, calling his name, I realized that I had met this moment as I hoped I might. I had learned that no matter how much you love something, it is impossible to hold it so tightly that death cannot slip it from your grasp. But you can hold on so tightly that life cannot get through. I had held McKinley as lightly as I knew how, trying hard not to wait fearfully for the moment that he was gone but with gratitude for each moment that he was here. I had no regrets, no apologies to make, no actions or words that I would change or take back. Guided by McKinley himself, I had kept my promise and given him a full life. He was not quite eight months old. Had he lived longer, perhaps I would have failed him. Time is both a blessing and a curse to any relationship—time to get it right, time to get it wrong. But somehow, I had succeeded. He taught me, more than any other animal or person I had known thus far, that to live fully is to let go of fear.

  Even in death, McKinley continued to teach me. A few days after he died, I was emotionally drained, trying to adjust to the immense emptiness his absence created in our lives. Work demands seemed relentless, and I was feeling increasingly angry. My dogs tiptoed away from me; my husband tried to appease my inarticulate wrath. Although I could see how stupidly I was behaving, I was unwilling to stop myself. Frustrated and trapped by my feelings, I decided to surrender the day and go to bed, hoping that sleep would ease me to a better place. Still wrapped in anger, I lay beside John, listening to his breathing as he relaxed into sleep. Seeking some outlet for the emotions working in me, I began to think about McKinley, and the tears—never far from the surface in those raw days—came quickly. Though nearly asleep, John sensed my
misery and reached for me, meaning to hold and comfort me. I jerked away from him, only to find myself even more wretched when he did not repeat the attempt but fell captive to sleep’s pull. This was fuel for my self-pity bonfire, and I fanned the flames with vivid images of McKinley’s dead body.

  Miserably reviewing McKinley’s death, I felt his presence, and saw and heard him in my mind as clearly as ever. “Do you have any regrets?” he asked, referring to my relationship with him. My answer, mercifully, was that I did not. Then the image of his body transformed into a scene of John leaving abruptly in the night, which as a volunteer firefighter, he often did. In this movie, I could see myself asleep, only vaguely aware that John was gone.

  McKinley spoke again. “What if John left right now and never came back? Would you have regrets?” It was a terrible thought that John should leave on a fire call but not return, never hear me apologize for my selfishness, never hear me say again that I love him. “There does not need to be regret. If you would wish for a chance to do differently what you have done, if you would regret what you have left undone, make it right. Now. Now may be the only time you have.”

  I saw McKinley’s face, his eyes steady and wise, and felt the peace I had known when I realized that at least with him, I had no regrets. Despite the hour, I woke my sleeping husband, told him that I loved him, that had been a fool. As forgiving as a dog, he folded me into his arms, and with no regrets, we fell asleep.

  THE FRAGILE CIRCLE

  Mine is not an elevated existence lived in a state of constant, deep appreciation and awareness. Like anyone else, I find myself annoyed by dogs underfoot, by puddles on the floor, by papers cleared from tables by wagging tails. I sometimes forget to be thankful for the warm animal bodies that curl next to me in bed, and instead complain about a lack of blankets to call my own. I pull dog hair from our food and long ago surrendered to the impossibility of keeping home and self spotlessly clean against an endless onslaught of muddy paws and sloppy wet kisses. I daydream occasionally of an animal-free life where my time, energy and resources are squandered on me and me alone. But the lesson of McKinley has spilled over, far beyond the immediacy of his life and his death. Now, when my dogs offer a kiss or invite me to play, I am less quick to push them away if I am feeling pressured or busy. I know that when they are gone, I would happily trade every moment spent complaining for a chance to give them another hug or to stroke their heads once more. I try to accept their gifts of the moment, reminding myself that I am a poor person indeed if I can’t spend time accepting the unconditional love offered so often every day by my dogs. On my left shoulder, death sits quietly, not a horrific figure but a source of wisdom on loving and living.

  There is a cycle of love and death that shapes the lives of those who choose to travel in the company of animals. It is a cycle unlike any other. To those who have never lived through its turnings or walked its rocky path, our willingness to give our hearts with full knowledge that they will be broken seems incomprehensible. Only we know how small a price we pay for what we receive; our grief, no matter how powerful it may be, is an insufficient measure of the joy we have been given.

  Writing in his essay, “The Once Again Prince,” animal lover and gifted writer Irving Townsend summed it up:

  We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan.

  It is a fragile circle. But it goes round and round without end.

  20

  COLD NOSES, NO WINGS

  Soul is most pregnant and ready to be born in relationships, since we can’t be

  human without them. We cannot save our soul, much less find it, alone.

  GARY ZUKAV, SEAT OF THE SOUL

  TO INCLUDE SIX DOGS IN A WEDDING is to invite Loki, the Norse god of mischief, to attend and bring a date. Even with Loki’s giggles in our ears, we designed a wedding ceremony that included our most beloved human friends and also our animal ones—dogs, horses and even our donkey. Friends took the dogs on leash as part of the entire procession of guests as all made their way out into the pasture, where John and I would follow on horseback later. Along with all our much-loved guests, the excited dogs stood near the back of the group, waiting for the moment in the ceremony when one by one we would call them to us. Each dog exemplified and brought to us qualities and characteristics we wanted to include in our marriage, and before calling out each dog’s name, we announced to all the gifts and lessons each dog brought us as they eagerly galloped to join us. In calling Molson to us, we asked for gentleness, maturity and determination. Bannockburn brought us power tempered with kindness, and wisdom. Vali brought us gracefulness, intensity, faithfulness. Carson—only a few days away from delivering the litter that brought us McKinley—offered us nurturing, watchfulness and fierceness. Chilkat carried with him beauty, nobility and courage. And Otter gave us laughter, joy and playfulness.

  In calling our dogs to us and naming their gifts and lessons, we acknowledged what they helped create in our lives and honored their role in our lives as teachers. We could have just as easily called out each friend’s name and told of the blessings and lessons they had brought to our lives. All relationships, no matter how brief, no matter whom they may be with, are opportunities for learning. The lessons we need to learn and the messages that we need to hear in order to heal and grow are all around us in the natural world, in the people that fill our lives, and in the animals in our lives. The very moment we open ourselves to hearing and seeing the possibilities at work in our lives, even our ugliest or unhappiest moments can teach us about ourselves and our interconnectedness with all others. In every friend’s weakness, I may see a cautionary note for my own life, or recognize the blessing of being a bit stronger where my friend may falter. In every friend’s strengths, I may see the power of gifts used with love and integrity, or realize that my own weaknesses need to be acknowledged and dealt with. Without the contrast between myself and others, I might all too easily forget that there are as many paths through life as there are feet to walk them, and that mine is not the only way to travel. Just as lessons about cooperation and industrious effort can be understood in simply lying on your belly and watching ants for an hour or so, our dogs offer us lessons if we are willing to open our hearts to hear them.

  To ask “What can I learn from you?” acknowledges that all of us—including animals—serve at one time or another as teachers for each other. This humble question reminds us that we are, all of us, students of life; learning and growth are not phases we pass through on our way to adulthood, but constant companions in our daily life. When we are willing to ask this most fundamental of questions, something profound shifts inside us, creating an awareness that wherever we look, there are teachers bearing truths great and small for our lives.

  Physicist John Archibald Wheeler noted, “The observer’s choice of what he shall look for has an inescapable consequence for what he will find.” Here we come full circle back to the responsibility of choice that is the very heart of every relationship. We can choose to move toward greater intimacy or away from it, to act out of love or out of fear, to bring our attention and energy to a moment or to live unconsciously. Far beyond our relationships with our dogs, even at the level of electrons and quarks, what we think and how we choose to observe our world, how we shape our expectations—all help to create our reality.

  The mind is a powerful thing but, like all power, may not be used wisely. Years ago, while traveling in Germany, I had an amusing but unforgettable lesson in how our assumptions can lead us to block the information that is available to us. Watching television, I struggled for a while to make sense of the German dubbing over a familiar American show, but it made me quite queasy to watch lips move with no relation to the words my ears were hearing—if there’s an auditory form of motion sickness, t
his is how it is triggered. Giving up my attempts to understand what was being said, I settled into simply watching the program as if it were a silent movie, using this opportunity to focus on the subtleties of facial expression and gesture, which told a surprisingly amount of the tale. An hour or so later, having halfheartedly watched several programs broadcast in German, I realized that some of what was being said was making sense to me, the foreign sounds of German resolving themselves in my mind so that with each passing moment, I could understand more and more of the words. This was astonishing. Elated with my newfound comprehension, I was about to announce this development to my hostess when a commercial came on. In German. And not one word made any sense to me. When the television show continued, I realized to my chagrin that it was not dubbed in German but broadcast in the original English.

  How had I missed this? I was so sure that the television shows were in German that even when a new show began in English, my brain refused to accept what my ears were receiving—the familiar sounds of my native language. The filter of assumption is so powerful that though I was physically learning English, I could perceive nothing but what I assumed I was hearing: German. Assumptions about dogs may lead us to block what the dogs have to tell us, even when the message is clear and unmistakable. We may assume that animals have nothing of value to say, or even if we do accept that there are messages being sent, we believe that we are incapable of understanding them, reserving that for exceptionally gifted horse whisperers and Dr. Doolittle types.