Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Having a good pet is the closest some of us ever come to knowing the direct love of a mother, or God.
Nov 7, 2003 | In the magical documentary "Rivers and Tides," about the artist and naturalist Andy Goldsworthy, there is a scene where Goldsworthy outlines black holes in the ground with bright leaves, wreaths of red and yellow and green. Over time, green shoots grow out of the holes, when the leaves have blown away. I think of this scene whenever I confront loss, because I have to believe that green shoots will grow from even the deepest black hole, either in a wreath, so that we might see it better -- in poems, or paintings -- or in plainsong, like when our dog died last year.
Having a good dog is the closest some of us are ever going to come to knowing the direct love of a mother, or God, so it's no wonder it knocked the stuffing out of me and Sam when Sadie died. I promised Sam we'd get another puppy someday, but secretly decided not to ever get another dog. I didn't want to hurt that much again, if I could possibly avoid it. And I didn't want my child's heart and life to break like that again. But you don't always get what you want; you get what you get. This is a real problem for me. You want to protect your child from pain, and what you get instead is life, and grace, and while theologians insist that grace is freely given, the truth is that you sometimes pay through the nose. And you can't pay your child's way.
We should never have gotten a dog to begin with -- they all die. I know this sounds sort of negative, and bitter, but it happens to be true. That's why it's so subversive that Goldsworthy makes art that will pass away in the fullness of time, or later that same day, like his giant prismatic rings made of icicles. He builds them outside on the cold ground, positioned to frame the sun in the sky as its light shines through. Of course, the sun is also the reason the ice rings melt so soon, but if he built them of iron, there'd be no halo, no prism.
When Sam was 2, and George Herbert Walker Sushi-Barfing Bush was president, and it seemed that the first Gulf War would assure his reelection, I couldn't help noticing I was depressed and afraid a lot of the time, like I am now. I decided that I either needed to move, to marry an armed man, or to find a violent but well-behaved dog. I was determined, as I am now, to stay and fight, and the men I tended to love were not remotely well enough to carry guns, so I was stuck with the dog idea.
For awhile I called people who were advertising dogs in the local paper. Everyone said they had perfect dogs, but perfect for whom? Quentin Tarantino? One dog we auditioned belonged to a woman who said her dog adored children, but it actually lunged at Sam, snarling. Other dogs snapped at us. One ran to hide, peeing as she ran. So I took the initiative and ran an ad for a mellow, low-energy guard dog, and the next day we got a call from a woman who said she had just the dog.
As it turned out, she did have a great dog, a gorgeous 2-year-old named Sadie, half black lab, and half golden retriever. She looked like a black Irish setter. I always told people she was like Jesus in a black fur coat, or Audrey Hepburn in Blackglama, elegant and loving and silly; such a lady.
She was very shy at first. Our vet said she must have been abused as a puppy, because she was so worried about not pleasing us. He taught us how to get on the floor with her and barrel into her slowly, so that she would see that you meant her no harm -- that you were in fact playing with her. She tried to look nonplussed, but you could see she was alarmed. But she was so eager to please that she learned to play, if politely.
She lived with us for 10 years, saw us through great joy and great losses. She consoled us through friends' illnesses, the death of Sam's grandparents. She and I walked Sam to school every day. She was mother, dad, psych nurse. She helped me survive my boyfriends and the metallic, percussive loneliness in between. She helped Sam survive his first mean girlfriend. She'd let my mother stroke her head forever. She taught comfort.
But when she and Sam were about to turn 13, she developed lymphoma. She had lymph nodes in her neck the size of golf balls. Our vet said she would live a month if we didn't treat her. Part of me wanted to let her die, so we could get it over with, have the pain behind us. But Sam and I talked it over, and decided to get her half a dose of chemo: We wanted her to have one more great spring. She was better two days later. She must have had a great capacity for healing: She went in and out of remission for two and a half years, 10 seasons. Toward the end, when she got sick again and probably wasn't going to get well, our vet said he would walk us through her death. He said that even when beings are extremely sick, 95 percent of them is still healthy and well -- it's just that the 5 percent feels so shitty -- and that we should focus on the parts that were well, that brought her pleasure like walks, smelling things, and us.
Our vet does not like to put animals to sleep unless they are suffering, and Sadie did not seem to be in pain. He said that one day she would go under the bed and not come out, and when she did, he would give us sedatives to help her stay calm. One day, she crawled under the bed, just like he said she would.
It was such a cool, dark cave under my bed, with a big soft moss green carpet. Her breathing was labored. She looked apologetic.
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