Day: March 14, 2010

Is it morbid to think about the time when Izzy dies? I’ve been writing all week about grieving for the animals we love, and I though it might be helpful – and honest – to share how I think about it. Once in awhile, I make sure to think about when Izzy dies. How he was abandoned on a farm and lived mostly outside for years and on his own, this intensely social and attached creature. How he drove me crazy when he first came to the farm, jumping fences, tearing the house apart. How he has seen so much life and death in his hospice work, see so many people he loved fade and die. Been so gentle and faithful to the people in his care, gone to their funerals, sat by their caskets.

I think about the way in which he helped open me up to photography, when I was so frightened and sad that I did not see how I could get through a day, and then I’d say, “Hey, Iz, let’s go chase some sunsets,” and he would rush out the door and into the car and then when I got to the place I wanted to shoot, I would open the car door again and he would jump out and lie by the road – just as he is doing above – and watch me and keep me company on this cold and black nights when I thought my world had come to an end, and the light had gone from it.

I think of his media and book tours, all the TV studios he’s been to, all the bookstores, all the speeches, where he greets people and lies quietly and walks with me and guides me through my life. When I teach my story telling workshop Thursday, he will be there, helping the students be at ease.

And how he has come to love Maria and welcome her into our lives. When he dies, I will be there with him, and hold his head in my arms and kiss him on the nose and say goodbye and thank you. And he will not be gone from my life, because of all things he helped me do, and led me to and did with me. Those things will live as long as I do.

I don’t think about this a lot, but I do want to think about it from time to time. And my other dogs too. It’s how I deal with it.

Izzy is nearly seven, and will perhaps live another six or seven years, if he stays healthy. Most likely, I will see him go, so I picture that in my mind once in awhile, and think how I will say goodbye. And then think of what Izzy would most want for me. And then I will go out and get another dog.

Dot sent me a beautiful message about her dog Abby, a fourteen-year old Lenore-like Yellow Lab who will be put down on Tuesday. She thanked me for writing about what a dog would say to us at the end because it comforted her. “We did give her a wonderful life, and she did the same for us. We will miss her.”

Dot says she didn’t do anything exceptional to get Abby to fourteen, “we just loved her and she loved us.” Dot has a humble and clear way with words, and I was touched by her love, clarity and perspective. “I’m not grieving outrageously,” she said, “I’m just grieving.”

I hope Dot continues to allow herself to grieve. It is an awful loss and it cuts very deeply. It need not be hidden or apologized for.

And I hope Dot can stay in touch with the idea that she gave Abby a wonderful life, and Abby returned the favor. That is the glorious tradition of humans and dogs. They are not here long, but they enter our lives and touch us deeply.  If they could talk, I do not believe they would want anything from us but to repeat the experience, and get and love another dog just as much. In this way, they do not die. They live on, for me, in the impact they have on us, and the ways in which they permit us to love so freely and unconditionally.

Godspeed to Dot, and to Dear Abby. I will be thinking of you both on Tuesday.

I love to walk in the woods and listen to stone wall secrets. One reason I think I could never live in cities or suburbs again is that I would not hear any stone wall secrets. If you stop and listen to them, you will never be disappointed. It is a blustery, almost frighteningly windy and cold day. The dogs do not want to go out, but I do. See if I can’t get a shot of some leaves blowing around.

My meditation in Quaker Meeting was helpful. It helped me see that I am not  ready for any decisions right at this moment. On my mind are my daughter’s new book coming out Tuesday, my short stories, and the story-telling workshop I’m teaching Thursday. Could be a great week. It does not seem to me that we will be moving. I just can’t picture it.

I love the quiet and the isolation of the country. It speaks very deeply to me. Is one of the secrets the stone walls whisper to me.

Maria and I have been together for more than a year now, and it is striking to me how much we have come to love one another’s dogs. Frieda is the sort of dog I’ve avoided for much of my life, and she and I are madly in love with one another. Lenore loves everyone of course, but the border collies have really attached to Maria and love to walk with her in the woods. I loved this shot of Maria and Izzy I got yesterday while I was crawling around trying to shoot stone walls. I suppose it could have been different, but it’s a lovely thing.

Went to Quaker Meeting in Easton, N.Y. this morning and drank deeply and happily of the quiet and and the feel of the place.  Felt stronger, more peaceful in the Meeting. I think I ‘ll go back. I see that meditation – Quaker, Zen, at home – is a good thing for me to be doing. It soothes the soul and quiets the mind.

Maria moved her pincushion in the Studio Barn, and it is pretty irresistible, even in shadow. Can’t wait for the sun to hit it.