Day: December 28, 2011

A woman came up to me in Cambridge today, her eyes moist with tears, and she said, you might be so devastated by Rose’s death, I can only imagine. I could not really explain to this very good woman what I was thinking, but it was clarified for me later today after Maria and I scattered Rose’s ashes up on the hill. I remember when Rose and I would come up alone every day and sit at this same spot, and my soul was so cold and thin the wind blew right through it.

Today was different. Maria was sitting next to me, and then, almost on the run, Simon came up and he simply stood next to me, and pressed his forehead against mine, and then I did cry, for sure, and we sat there for many minutes, still, our heads pressed against one another, me and this extraordinarily sensitive and loving creature, and you cannot tell me that he did not sense my sadness and need, and this is something he knows, and he came to be with me.

So what I wished I had said to that nice woman was this: Do not be sad for me, and I am not in devastating grief. I am overwhelmed by the love of the people who bought Connie’s books in honor of Rose, and who sent me thousands of loving messages and who support my writing and my life. I am so grateful to sit up on that hill with someone I love so deeply. And then, on the edge of darkness, comes this exquisitely empathetic creature, himself pulled from the edge of life and pours balm on my heart and fills that soul with warmth and meaning. This is it, really, always for me to remember. After night, day. After darkness, light. How sad can I really be?

 

We liberated Rose from her shiny paw-print decorated tin can this afternoon, and she is finally free at last, and that was a joyous feeling. I owed her that much and more.  I scattered her ashes across the windswept pasture at the top of the hill. They seemed to have a direction all their own, and they blew across the ground, and  across Orson’s grave and beyond and up into the darkening sky. This is a good spot, I think, for Rosie. She herded the sheep up there, and she spend the first few years of her life with Orson. She loved him, as much as she loved anything that wasn’t work. She was one of the few living things Orson always tolerated, and she was always too businesslike for his nonsense. Rose can keep an eye on things up there, including me.

The spot felt right. Rose was present when Orson was buried in that grave, but I thought burial too confining for her energetic spirit. If she wishes, she can update her map of the farm from there and keep an eye on me as well. I kept a small tin of her ashes – Maria, ever thoughtful,  bought it for me in Brooklyn – for my study, so she can inspire me to stay focused on my work. Rosie never dawdled much, or procrastinated, unlike the human she was always trying to organize. I still see her rushing to the open door of my study, eyes wide, trying to lure me out to do some work, then darting off, as if I should follow. She usually appears in the mornings.

Honestly,  I have no illusions about Rose staying around, no wish for her to do so.  I do not presume she wants to spend eternity with me, and do not expect to meet her over any bridge. Finally, and at long last, she is free. She can go wherever she wants.  She has earned her freedom and is entitled to it. She demands it, I think, and it is not mine to give.

I climbed up the hill with Maria, remembering the countless times Rose and I went up there to round up sheep, or take them to another pasture, or to battle some lamb or ram down the hill, or battle a donkey. A beautiful spot. I said some last words to Rosie:

“Walk, walk, walk, to the edge of the field.

   Then run, run, run, when the wind lifts you up,

   As fast as you can, through the golden fields,

  through the clouds,  and the sun

  and the snow and the rain,

  and the sparkling dust, and the stars,

  and the shining meadow grass.

  And then, go to sleep.

  Give up your racing heart, your long tongue,

 your warmth, your heat,

your anxious eyes, your hungry lungs.

  Then, you are free. Then, live your life,

as you always helped me live mine.”

So there it is. The chapter ends.  The nature of life has spoken its relentless piece again. It gives, and it takes away. Every day.

The world is bigger than us, and will have its way.

It’s done. Free at last.

 

Frieda was a star during her first grooming. She gave Eileen Quackenbush of Muddy Paws, Shushan, N.Y., a small growl, and then I picked her up and dumped her in the tub, and she was a perfect lady after that, nervous but responsive.  Eileen loves dogs dearly and talked to her throughout, calming her. She was no trouble at all.

After a 10-minute bath, we walked her out for some drying and brushing. She came home, threw up in the backyard,and has been sleeping next to me ever since. I am very proud of her and pleased about how far she has come. At this rate, I’ll be taking her to readings when the book about her comes out in 2012.   She didn’t need a muzzle, collar or leash, and I held her head for a few minutes, and then she settled, and was calm and obedient. Eileen says I don’t need to be present next time.

This is a milestone for Frieda, who was kept away from people, dogs,  groomers, and handled carefully by vets.  She is still excitable, and still prone to taking off after rabbits and deer,but we are working on that, the last frontier of our long and very challenging training. Frieda was by far the most difficult training experience I have had, and I learned so much from her – about trust, persistence, patience and love.

I had to be trained too. This was the kind of dog I always avoided, but seeing her loyalty, affection and intelligence has broadened my thinking about dogs. I am still careful with her, and she still has lots of work to do with me. But this was a big step, for sure, an affirmation. I believe in respecting dogs as the wonderful animals that they are, and the more I cling to this, and the less I see them as people or children, the better they do in the world. Frieda was in need of a grooming, and I thought of her wandering the Adirondacks for several years, and I bless anybody who hangs in there with a dog. I did not think it could be done.  It can be done.

 

I’ve always felt that Maria’s work has a powerful feminist ethic as well as a political one about resources and art.

But the”I Am” pillow is, to me, a pure affirmation of self, of spirit, of growth. I love it. Maria finished it yesterday and put it up for sale on her website. I am blessed to see this powerful spirit emerge from someone who had closed off much of herself to the rest of the world, and then decided to live in a differently. It takes a lot of strength and determination to do that. I love the “I Am” pillow. Yes, she is.

 

For Frieda, our trip to the groomer this morning is a bit of a graduation. Frieda has never been to a groomer, but I am comfortable about it. Eileen Quackenbush of Muddy Paws, Shushan, N.Y., can handle herself, and Frieda and I have advanced to the point where I am quite confident about her getting through it. At first, Maria had to muzzle her at the vets, but we haven’t had to do that for a long time. Frieda has never bitten any human, for all the noise she makes, and it my job to work with and train her so that she never does. She is anxious in strange hands, and I have to respect that. That is not aggression. In this case, a good reason for me to be there. She trusts me.

One reason I do not like to refer to dogs as “rescues” or as abused is that I think we project this idea onto them – they are so tuned to our emotions – that they are dangerous and beyond our command. Confidence is a critical part of animal training, I believe. I always stop before training and set my intentions – I can do this, you (the dog) can do this, we will do it together. I think we communicate this confidence and authority to them, and they listen and learn to respond. It’s a profoundly important way to bond with a dog and if we think of them as piteous or damaged – or as rescued things – they will pick it up, one way or the other. I respect Frieda. I expect her to learn the rules of my world, for her safety and the safety of everyone else.

I have researched Frieda’s life intensely for a book on her coming out in 2013 – “Frieda and Me: Second Chances.” We’ve been through a lot here. I remember well her year in the barn and her ferocious responses to the other dogs, the donkeys and the chickens. I expect her to be calm and contained.

I don’t really see today as a crisis, as much as I love to joke about Frieda.

I see grooming today as a kind of graduation.