19 February

Poem: Divine Old Dogs Never Die

by Jon Katz
Divine Old Dogs Never Die
Divine Old Dogs Never Die:Saying Goodbye

I said goodbye to the Divine Old Dog,

she was ready to leave.

Where do you go, I asked?

I can tell you this, she said,

looking sly,

we do not go to the other side of any bridge,

to sit and wait for you,

and we do not die.

Ever.

We run and run, in gold fields,

on strong legs with no more pain,

we run

in woods and valleys,

in forests, by streams,

we eat berries, mice,

rabbits and moles,

we pluck fish out of crystal streams,

we roll in offal and feces,

eat the bulbs of flowers,

fight and chase one another,

lie in the sun,

chew what we please,

make love day and night,

sleep in packs, in warm, dark dens,

we wait for the angels, to find us

new people,

to save.

19 February

Poem: The Nuthatch, Singing To Me In The Wild Wind

by Jon Katz
The Nuthatch
The Nuthatch

It was February, late winter,

and finally, as one storm ended,

and another began,

I heard him, the nuthatch,

even as

a fierce wind,

blew a cloud of snow off of the barn roof,

clutching an upper limb,

and I saw him,

in the big white birch,

in a sea of white,

he was a common feeder,

black, gray and white,

a hider of nuts and acorns,

a connoisseur of seeds,

My fingers hurt,

the snow was blowing into my face,

and then he spoke to me,

I began to understand

what he was telling me,

“the human spirit,” he sang,

his yammering voice

loud and nasal,

it would have been annoying,

were it not so beautiful.

“is stronger than wind, and ice,

and even darkness and death, that’s my song to you.”

I listened, cleared my head,

thought of nothing,

the hands in the clocks stopped,

I saw the purest white,

the snow began to sprinkle upward,

like gravity rising,

the sun peeked out of the mist.

“Is it Spring, is the sun out?,”

I asked the nuthatch,

he tilted his head at me.

“Does your soul need lifting?,”

he sang to me,

“Hurry then, run on your slow,

and heavy feet,

to what you love,

everyone has a chance,

the human spirit sings it’s own song.”

 

19 February

Dostoyevsky’s Winter: “The Darker The Night, The Closer To God!”

by Jon Katz
Dostoyevsky's Winter
Dostoyevsky’s Winter

The weather channel has taken to giving winter storms ungainly Roman names, I decided today to call this “Dostoyevsky’s Winter.” I have a muse for my winter now, an inspiration and I confess that I needed one. This is a Russian winter, made famous by the great novelists of Russia, today, frigid air from Siberia swept over the farm with howling winds and brutal temperatures.

I am of Russian descent, and I remember reading about the great Russian winters in Dostoyevsky’s novels (“Crime and Punishment”) and novellas and short stories. I also remember hearing about them from my grandmother, who told me stories of starvation and trial, of seeing her brother pulled off a sled by wolves and taken away in front of her.   She searched for him for many months, she never found a trace of him.

She and her brother had set out looking for food in a great and unrelenting Russian winter, there was none in their village.

We are in a great Russian winter, even the air is coming from there. Our winter is filled with challenge and discontent, exhaustion and discomfort, hard work and some anxiety.

No one has been comfortable for months, the sheep and the donkeys gather at the gate and call out to us, they cannot walk on the freezing ground even their stubble of a pasture is buried in many feet of snow. We have lost three animals here – Simon, Frieda and Lenore – and the bitter cold may have weakened them, even driven them to fatigue and resignation.

Grief and discomfort are a potent brew, especially when mixed with grey days, snow and wind. Every day we scrape snow off of rooftops, shovel snow we shoved just the day before, scrape the ice off of the cars, clean out the frozen manure from the barn, take water to the chickens, who cannot get out of their roots. We are tired, we feel confined, we suffer from the loss of color and light.

The great Russian winters were marathons, tests of endurance, they brought sorrow, loss, grief and great collisions between people and Mother Earth.  People died, were depressed, found their own strength and determination. To get in sync with winter, it might be worthwhile  to read Dostoyevsky, his writing explored human nature in the troubled political and spiritual drama that was 19th-century Russia,  home of the great and wrenching winters.

“The darker the night, the brighter the stars, the deeper the grief, the closer is God!”, wrote Dostoyevsky in “Crime And Punishment.” A good anthem for this winter, I thought, it speaks to my heart in this soul-testing February.

Dostoyevsky was sentenced to death for joining a literary discussion group, at the last minute Tsar Nicholas I sent a note to the firing squad, commuting his sentence to four years of hard labor in Siberia. He was stricken with epilepsy there, then forced to serve as a soldier in the Russian army. I stood out on the road today, threw back my hood and opened my face to the awful beauty and cold of the Russian wind, of the Siberian wind. This, I thought, is the air  Dostoyevsky breathed, I am connected to him, and he reminds me to embrace my own winter, it will soon be over. He captured it well, I thought, I can breathe it and connect to is.

Just think of it, I thought, 150 years ago, a Russian winter,  hard labor in Siberia.

Dostoyevsky said that above all things, people ought not ever lie to themselves. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, and so loses all respect for himself and for the others. “And having no respect,” he wrote, “he ceases to love.’

He also wrote that taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear the most.  New steps, I think, are much more frightening than our Russian winter, and I am committed to taking them on the heels of this winter, and now I have a wise and talented companion.

The Russian winters were very much like our winter this year. They were characterized by endless storms, sub-zero temperatures, relentless winds across the great steppes, months without sun and great suffering and loss.  It seemed that life came to an end in the Russian winters, it seems that the world is reborn when they were over.

Winters are, in themselves, a spiritual opportunity. Dostoyevsky helps me make sense of our Russian winter, such a winter will shape our soul and test our strength. And give us great reason to hope, if for no other reason than that they must end.

Love, he wrote, is what saves us.

19 February

Love And Loss: The Ritual Of Life

by Jon Katz
Love And Loss
Love And Loss

We’ve put animals down three times in this endless winter, and I admit it has become somewhat ritualistic. We go to a waiting room, we sign papers (Frieda will be cremated, we want the ashes only, not the candles or snips of hair), the vet explains that she will give two shots, one a sedative, the other a lethal injection. Frieda, anxious and difficult around vets, is weak and disoriented. Maria holds Frieda’s head, I hold Maria’s hand.

The vet comes in, gives Frieda a sedative in her rear leg, then the vet leaves so that the sedative can work and so that Maria and I can say our farewells. We each talk to Frieda, kiss her on her forehead, say goodbye, thank her. I love Frieda, but this is Maria’s dog, really, and my role is support Maria. She is strong and clear, she is certain it is time, certain Frieda is ready to go. Suzanne Fariello, the vet, agrees, she makes sure we know she is comfortable with the decision.

We know the drill, we all do.

Suzanne is sympathetic and understanding, she is also professional. She does this every day, there is something comforting in that. Cassandra, her assistant, helps. Suzanne does this procedure with the dog on the floor, so that we can hold her and so that she is spared the anxiety and distress of being up on a table.

The sedative works quickly, as it did with Simon and with Lenore.  Maria and I are shocked, seeing Frieda lie there, at how thin she has become, how dry and matted her fur is, how different she looks than just a few months ago.

Frieda wobbles and then lies down Her eyes are open, she seems barely conscious.  Maria rests her forehead against her, the two of them talk in their timeless way. We all put our hands on her, hold her, we send her on her way.  Then the vet comes in, she inserts a catheter in Frieda’s leg – she wants the injection to be fast and secure for all of our sakes – and in a minute, Frieda is gone. It is a quick and painless procedure, blessedly efficient.

There is a sense of release and relief. Suzanne check’s Frieda’s heartbeat with her stethoscope. “She’s gone,” she says. We talk about the cremation arrangements, we will be billed in the mail, everybody hugs and we leave. Maria, for the first time in many years, is without Frieda, her companion, protector and art studio dog.

“She was ready,” Maria says. I agree. We are at peace with the decision, we are relieved to have spared her further suffering. We can’t do this for human beings, but we can do it for dogs and horses and animals.

Frieda is a spirit dog, she entered Maria’s life for a reason, she left when she was done. She has moved on, glory to her.

There is always an issue of privacy when an animal dies. We are both private people, even though we share our lives. I always say I am not going to take any photos, but then I always do. First, because I am a journalist in my blood and I believe important events ought to be recorded.

And secondly, because it is part of being authentic.

Life with animals is a joyous adventure, but grief, loss and suffering are a part of it. In our world, we have emotionalized farms and animals – most people know nothing of the real lives of real animals, that’s why the carriage horses are in so much peril –  and we hide from death and grief. I am determined not to do that, and a life with animals does not permit it. The purpose of photography is not just to take beautiful and endearing photos. Here, we live in the real lives of real animals, and animals often die. It seems dishonest, hypocritical for me to share one without the other.

Animals can lift us up, and knock us down when they die. I will not stay down in my life with animals, each one is a gift to me, and I am grateful for it. I will not make it into a misery because they do what animals do, and die sometimes.

Grief and life are close companions, I am committed to understanding – and sharing – what it means to be a human being. Frieda and Simon and Lenore have all taught me much about that.

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