2011 - November

Dear Friends,

Blondie, my dog, got up this morning just like the thousands of mornings before this one. Having heard me stir, she squinted her eyes from her place on the couch. She let out a semi-silent yawn, letting me know she was tired and reticent to stir. She gently sniffed the air. Her ears raised up and her brow furrowed just a little. These things she does without moving her head.

Her big brown eyes tracked me with her gaze and eventually opened all the way into an expression of curiosity – but without any firm commitment. When I stepped within the event-horizon around the couch, her tail started to wag. When my outstretched hand inched closer still, she reflexively raised her head and folded back her ears so that petting her would require less effort.

This month our theme is longing. And Blondie is the best example of portraying longing I have known. At least how it describes what happens in my heart as I come upon her.

When Blondie finally got off the couch – it was with her usual front paws first approach. She walked forward while her back legs remained on the couch and positioned herself for a majestic stretch. Her back became very long and her head raised high in the air, the corners of her jowls lifted slightly, involuntarily revealing how good it feels to untie the knots where her muscles had fixed themselves over the long night.

When she finally had all four legs on the floor, she looked around before moving. Unlike her youth, movement is nothing to waste. Now, when she does set a course, she waddles for a few steps until the engine and the caboose remember how to move in sync.

Only a few feet went by before she stopped. She set her rear end on the floor, twisted her head to the side, pushed her nose in the air, and tried a contorted scratch. Her back legs, once so agile, can remember the movement but cannot reach the span they once did. Her frantic movements bring less satisfaction than they once did. That is why if I am around, I will lay her down so that she can shamelessly show us her underside and let me scratch her tummy and sides while she reveals a look of bliss.

When my hands move to her tummy and her sides I can tell. The tumors are quite large now. They are what restrict her movement, bring her fatigue, make her itch. Still – today – she is glad to be alive. There is no mistaking the spark in her eye, her occasional prancing step, her genuine glee at hearing the can opener which proceeds meals or when she sees me carrying her dark blue leash for a walk.

It is easy to long for olden days, before the word, ‘cancer’ was known in such an personal way. But we both know too much gratitude to do that. After the veterinary oncologist said nearly 8 months ago, ‘it could be weeks,’ we are grateful for every day.

We know we will awake some morning very soon and she will stay on the couch. Her open eyes will follow me, but she will not stretch. She will not show me her belly. She will not get excited to eat or walk. We know there will come a morning where she will long to stay still.

She will not tell me that she would rather die than try to do what she can’t anymore. But I will know. I hope I will know. And I hope that when it happens she will know that there will be part of me that would rather die, too. That, indeed, will die... with her. A part of me will always long to open the can, see the wag, be on the other side of the leash and die because I can’t.

Longing is the bittersweet barometer that always tells us what is most important. It is a parcel of purpose and meaning wrapped in attachment. But when you tear off the attachment and look inside there is never anything but love. And directions.

To the Glory of Life.