I called Morgan Jones, the Mansion director this morning, I told her the realistic doll I had found and purchased for Diane, a Mansion resident with memory issues who was struggling to find peace at times in the Mansion had arrived. The doll, which was fashioned out of very lifelike vinyl, was an anatomically correct female. She came with a box of diapers, a teddy bear, a blanket and some toys.
The realistic dolls, used for some years now for Alzheimer and Dementia patients, has been hailed by social workers as a powerful tool to give memory patients a sense of responsibility, a task to perform, and an outlet for love and nurturing. They are said to be important calming and focusing tools.
There is a fair amount of protocol in the presentation of these dolls to patients, and I have been studying these protocols on line this weekend. The dolls must not be called dolls but “babies,” everyone on the staff needs to be briefed as to their purpose. The patient or resident is not pressured in any way to accept the doll, it is simple brought into her presence and she is either drawn to it, or not.
The patients are encouraged to take responsibility for the doll, it is an important task. I asked for someone on the staff to work with in presenting the doll to Diane. She suggested Hollyanne, an aide I know and respect. She is a remarkable young women, calm, professional and absolutely dedicated to the residents. She knows them all, their needs and moods and has a loving and calm way about her. She even knows the shoe sizes of each resident.
I brought the doll and her toys and bear and diapers into the office and Hollyanne and I went over the protocols. After five or ten minutes, we went to Diane’s room. Bonnie and Brittany, two other staffers, came along, we made a curious process down the hallway.
The plan was for Hollyanne to carry the doll, and let Diane, who was taking a nap, wake up and see her, and ask about her. It would soon be clear if this would work or not.
Several of the residents asked if I had a present for them, I said no, this one is for Diane.
I was focused, a bit anxious about this doll, this was a serious step, and I didn’t want to blow it.
Diane, like many memory patients, sometimes gets frustrated and confused. If she embraced the idea of the doll, it could make a significant difference to her mood and her life, as dolls have done for so many memory patients. It could also open the door to a number of new tools that might benefit the residents (like the activity apron I got for Joan today, see below). Her family is supportive of these tools and devices. They want her to have every possible way of feeling grounded and meaningful.
I see how the residents loved their stuffed animals. I was curious to see how Diane would react to a baby.
I’m telling this story in three parts, because I wanted to tell it thoroughly. I also wanted to give due credit to Hollyanne, who handled this perfectly, lovingly, and with great poise, as you will see in the video I took. The video is step two. Then step three. I’ll put up a photo album on Facebook.
I gave Joan her new activity apron, a tie-on apron for memory patients who sometimes get bored and restless because they can’t always participate in planned activities. It gives them something to do with their hands, and zippers buttons and pouches to load, unload and manipulate.
Joan took to it right away, whenever she places her hands in her lap, there is something to do and feel. She seemed drawn to it, I think it will be helpful to her. Joan and I talked for a long time today, she told me tales of her dogs, shared memories of her husband, who was a hunter, she recalled a dog she loved who ran off.
Joan and I seem to know how to communicate with one another, this is a gift to me. Thanks your support in helping the Mansion residents get new tools to cope with their lives. The apron was purchased with funds donated by the Army Of Good. You can contribute by sending a contribution to The Gus Fund, c/o Jon Katz, P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816, or via Paypal, [email protected]. Your gifts matter. You can write to Joan C/o The Mansion, 11 S. Union Avenue, Cambridge, N.Y. 12816.
The messages for the Gus Fund continue to fill my Post Office Box (P.O.Box 502, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816.
These are a wonderful and continuing gift from Gus to the Mansion residents and refugee kids after his death a few weeks ago.
They honor his name and our love for him.
I changed the name of the Mansion/Refugee Fund to the Gus Fund, and this struck a nerve. Today, letters from Colorado, California, New Jersey, Illinois, , Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Iowa, Rhode Island, Georgia, New Mexico, North Carolina, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and Florida.
Most of the donations are $5, $10, $20 bills, they are especially touching and meaningful to me.
From Sue in Milwaukee: “Enclosed is a small contribution in Gus’s memory, your dog who in his short life lived more experiences than most dogs have in a much longer lifetime, loved by so many and cared for from afar.
From Kate in Tennessee: “Having lost a two-year-old child, I know that the value of life is not measured in the number of days lived. Gus had what all dogs deserve – people who loved and cared for him…Please accept this small but heartfelt appreciation. I look forward to reading about the next little spirit animal that comes bounding into your life.”
From Candy in Denver: “For the love of Gus…”
From Diane in California: “For your wonderful people at the Mansion and for the refugees. Your writing has expanded my universe, for which I’m grateful…thank you.”
Messages For The Gus Fund
From Karla in Illinois: “Thank you for the daily inspiration to follow my heart, seek out the good in others and in myself, and to give of myself whether it be time, effort, money or love. We really are her for this higher purpose. May I always and forever remember this and act it, every day. With much love…”
From Kathy In Massachusetts: “I have way too many words to day what your blog has meant to me over the past what feels like a lifetime..so I won’t try. Actually it’s nearly impossible to find the words. And I wish I had more to give. But please know that I think of you and Maria and the folks at the Mansion and your RISSE family often, and thank you do for them. I am honored to be part of the Army Of Good. So happy birth from me…Im memory of Gus…”
From Paulette In Philadelphia: “Here’s a small donation to honor Gus, the spirited little fellow who gave us such fun and some lessons of life. Thanks to you, his stewards, you and Maria, who gave him such a good life. Thanks also for the work you do with refugees and seniors. Here’s to life…”
I wanted to share this with you, they do fill me with emotion and gratitude. I will use your dollars wisely and well, every penny will go to make someone’s life brighter and more peaceful. They touch me deeply. I don’t have many words to say either…
I have gotten well over 200 messages from all over the country since Gus died, some contain donations and checks, some don’t. They are all precious and welcome. If you wish to honor Gus, you can send your donation or contribution to the Gus Fund, P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816, or via Paypal, [email protected]
I am especially grateful that to many of you with few dollars to spare send some of them to me to help the residents and refugees. They have special meaning for me, and for Maria. thanks.
As is obvious, I am not a classical or intuitive herding dog trainer. I know several people who have “Herding Dog” bumper stickers on their cars and trucks but who couldn’t herd a puppy across the road. I took three years of herding lessons, won three blue ribbons from the AKC, and then dropped that path.
I did all right, I was never a natural at i t. I don’t whistle and can’t move quite fast enough.
I can only go so far, and I never identify myself as a herding guru or whiz, I have no need of bumper stickers. Red came to me almost fully trained, any dolt could her sheep with him, even me. I do love working with dogs. but I try not to be a snob about it.
It doesn’t make me Daniel Boone, and I would not last a minute in those big televised trials. . Red and I are blood brothers, he understands everything I say and am going to say before I even know it say it. We do what we need to do, and Red and I have never harmed a sheep, or lost one, or let one get away.
In the morning, at Sunrise I come into the pasture, and just talk to Red.
Sometimes I use the formal herding commands, more often I just mutter. This morning, I was bringing more hay out to the sheep feeder, and I didn’t wish to get knocked over by hungry sheep.
“Make a path for me,” I said, without even thinking that this was in no way a herding command, or anything me or anyone else had ever taught Red. Red, of course, got it instantly – he knows what I mean. He pushed the sheep to the far side of the feeder, giving me a clear and safe path out to the feeder. It is easy to take Red for granted, but I won’t.
He and Rose hold the co-titles of the greatest dogs I have known.
In her now famous research on grief, the psychologist Elizabeth Kubler-Ross identified the five stages of grieving for people when loved ones die – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
I’ve often wondered how these stages of grief for human beings compare with the stages of grief people feel for dogs and animals when they die. It’s been a month since Gus died – I suspect time is greatest healer of all – and I am moving forward, continuing to share my own perspective and experience of grief over young dog.
I have experienced little or no grief about the hard decision to put Gus down, the situation was painful but clear to me, and I have long seen guilt as an especially toxic and useless human emotion. Only the good and caring people feel it, the cold and heartless ones never do. We did the best for Gus, in life and in death, and I don’t need the approval or judgment of other people to understand that.
In our world, animal vampires – they literally feast on the blood of dying animals to feel good about themselves – are a new partner to the grieving process, thanks to modern technology.
Decisions about animals or grieving for them is no longer personal or individual. People think they have the right to introduce or judge complex decisions. Since I consider these people – the ones who prey on bereaved or grieving people – to be among the lowest and most broken of human life forms, I pay little mind to them. If they are not listened to or acknowledged, they dry up and vanish, just like real vampires are believed to do in the sun.
My own personal belief is that grieving for people is radically different from grieving for a dog, because our relationships with dogs are fundamentally different from our relationships with people.
The death of a dog, even a beloved one, is not the same as the death of a loved human being, spouse, partner, child, or friend we share our lives with for years, even decades.
In recent years, psychologists and veterinarians have noticed a profound increase in intense, human-like grieving over pets. Many mental health professionals consider animal grieving to be so intense it has become a public health issue.
Psychiatrists say that human grief can continue for many years, but they believe that when animal grieving goes on for any great length of time, it might be a symptom of deeper issues and losses in a person’s life. They recommend that when people find themselves unable to move on after the death of a pet, they might need help.
Grieving differs greatly from one person to another, but there is unanimity on one point: we all have to move on as soon as we can, and when we can. Looking at the epidemic of animal grieving online, I think this is confusing to some people. Some believe they are honoring their dogs by remembering them forever, my own practice is to honor my dogs by moving on and getting another. Moving on is the goal for me.
Our understanding of grieving for our animals is getting more complicated as dogs and cats occupy a larger and more critical role in the lives of increasingly isolated, stressed and alienated people. In recent years, we’ve seen that people’s interactions with and trust and regard for other people and for institutions like religion and politics has sharply declined.
The very things that grounded us and gave us comfort – family, community, work, nature, politics, leadership, religion, technological advancement – are no longer working for us.
Dogs and cats do work for us to do some of those very same things. No wonder we grieve them when they are gone.
For years people have been turning to animals for comfort, pleasure, love and connection.
Love for and from dogs is a ready antidote, it is most often unconditional and reliable – they love us no matter what we do.
Love for people is often conditional, the love we give and receive often depends on what we do.
I did not grieve for my father, at least not consciously. He and I had no particular relationship at all. So his loss was not meaningful to me. The death of my dog Rose was very meaningful to me, she and I ran the first Bedlam Farm together for six years. I felt her loss acutely and grieved for her. So yes, I am sorry to say I did mourn the loss of my dog more than the death of my own father.
I could not begin to tell you how many people have written me and told me they mourned their dogs much more than members of their family. I don’t think people said that or felt that 50 years ago.
The role of dogs in our emotional lives deepens and deepens, even as our sense of security, community, connections to people, and faith in institutions declines. When we get in trouble, we wonder who will be there for us in this greedy corporate world. Our dogs are always there for us, that is what they do.
As with people, grieving for dogs or cats is an intensely personal experience. We all do it in our own way, there is not wrong and wrong, it takes the time it needs to take. We don’t choose the stages of grieving, the stages of grieving choose us.
I heard a woman on the radio this morning say the problems with the White House today is that there is no dog inside of it to soften the edges, bring smiles, demonstrate acceptance and affection, hand out love, teach the residents about life. I started to dismiss this as loopy, but then thought about it.
There is something to it. You can’t be humorless and angry all the time with a good dog at your feet. Dogs teach empathy, they can’t speak so we have to put ourselves in their shoes.
I pictured Gus in the White House running around, going for walks, bring toys for tug-of-war, hopping up on people’s laps, showering them with kisses. How could life not be less angry and aggrieved in there? Gus did this for me, he grounded me and made me smile, he made me laugh a hundred times a day. That would be a great gift at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Congress, corporate suites, or anywhere the angry old white men gather to rage and thunder and tell us what to do.
I grieve for the loss of that presence in my house. I intend to find it again.
We like people less and less than we used to, we like and love dogs more than we ever have, or perhaps really should. Dogs are not the best say for us to heal our disconnection from nature and one another, or solve our political problems, but they are one of the best ways available to us.
I see that the grieving process for people and the grieving process for dogs are getting closer and closer all the time, sometimes there is not much difference. When people lose unconditional love and connection, it is often shattering, and the therapeutic and cultural world has been slow to catch up to that reality.
People who are broken up over the death of their dogs and cats are often ridiculed and trivialized, even ashamed to talk about it.
Vets know, they see it all the time, and some are turning to social workers to work with their clients and help them deal with the emotional challenges of losing a dog or cat.
With Gus, I did not experience the five stages of grieving. I felt a sense of denial, for sure. How could an active 10 month old puppy be so sick as to die at 10 months? How could modern medical technology have nothing to offer him that might save his life?
I did not feel any anger, at least not consciously. It was nobody’s fault. I am not God. I don’t second guess life. And I am not shocked. To live with dogs or cats is to know loss and grief, all of us will experience it, most of us already have.
I had done all my bargaining before Gus’s death, not after.
And I was only momentarily depressed, perhaps for a day or two. My life is too rich and challenging for that. I did experience acceptance, a growing element in my faith. Life is in balance, light and dark, suffering and joy, cold and warm. We do not get to choose who in our lives lives or dies. Life is perhaps our deepest universal experience.
Today, I experience Gus in sharp and painful flashes – when I look to see if he is up on the couch, challenging me to play, or if I sit in my chair, expecting him to hop up and shower me with kisses and love, or when the sun comes into the room in the morning and he is not curled up behind Maria’s knees, peering over the top of the blanket, waiting for me to wake up.
But those are moments, not hours, not days. I have set in motion the process of getting another puppy, another Boston Terrier, my life is moving forward, and that, for me, is the most healing thing there is. My life is rich and full, and there is not a space left over for too much grief and lament.
When someone dies, we cannot go out and adopt or purchase another human.
When a dog or cat dies, you can. I love dogs too much to mourn too long. I can’t wait to love another one.
That is perhaps the most significant and profound difference., the reality that will always separate grieving for a dog from grieving for a human. Dogs are never partners for life, they can only mark the passages of our lives.
Life happens, and I accept and respect life. I cannot tell it what to do.
