It was only a matter of weeks after our beloved family dog passed away at age 15 that I was researching lab rescues with the tenacity of a bloodhound on a hunt. My husband thought it was too soon and reminded me of the countless times I pledged I would never get another dog.
I didn’t want to want a dog. I didn’t want their hair that floated and coated every possible surface, or to operate as a reluctant doorman for an indecisive canine who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be inside or out. Mostly, I wanted to avoid the crushing heartache of grief from losing a dog’s loyal and unyielding love when the inevitability of death came.
Yet the emptiness that filled my hairless house and my aching heart made these objections seem trivial. Within weeks, I adopted a three-year-old yellow lab from Labrador Retriever Rescue of Florida. He had been abandoned at a house in a rural county and was undergoing treatment for heartworms. He was mellow and acted older than his years. We called him Mack because he seemed rugged and manly like the Marlboro man, if he had been a truck driver instead of a nicotine-addicted cowboy peddling cigarettes from a horse. Besides, at 94 pounds, our new dog bore a certain likeness to a Mack truck.
During our first few months together, Mack wouldn’t go in the backyard alone, so I often sat outside with him for long stretches of time. He didn’t feel well because he was still recovering from heartworm treatment, so mostly we just sat together in that empty space of contemplation. I often found myself looking over at where we had buried our beloved family dog and wondered if Mack was also thinking about someone he loved and lost.
It felt as if we were starting in the middle; in that tenuous space where we think we should know more than we do about ourselves and each other. His formative years were shaped by someone else. There are gaps and details of his previous life that remain a mystery. It didn’t bother me to think that maybe he missed his other family. I miss having young children and the raucous black dog that fit so perfectly amid our pack. I didn’t need him to be the family dog or the best dog ever; life already blessed me with that. When we found out Mack needed knee surgery and has hip dysplasia, I didn’t lament his imperfections. My body had already shown me its share of its own. Read more
I sometimes suspect that my 15-year-old dog stole one of our two cats’ nine lives. Besides the obvious signs of aging — gray muzzle, cloudy eyes, and limping gait — he still acts like the overly needy, exuberant black lab that almost caused me to wreck the car on the drive home from the shelter the day we adopted him.
This isn’t my usual post day or my usual post. I am writing under the pretense of inviting you to a book signing this weekend because really that’s what I should be doing to sell books and I need to sell books. But that isn’t really why I am reaching out.
A friend of mine told me about a prayer request for someone dear to her who was hospitalized with pneumonia in both lungs. Over three weeks his condition deteriorated and finally, he passed away. She had prayed for his healing but it wasn’t to be.
A picture may be worth 1,000 words but the picture this story paints just needs one – love.
The color black is symbolic of funerals, representing everything from the heavy grief that overshadows the bereaved to the most common color-choice for attire. How strange then that the decision on whether to attend a funeral isn’t always as clear as the delineation between black and white. Many people fall into a gray area of not knowing the deceased well, but still wanting to support the grieving. It can feel like an awkward palette from which to draw — blending the darkness of death with the comfort of light.
Last year, a friend of mine was taken to the emergency room. She had the flu and was in critical condition. Before I rushed to the hospital, I prayed a rosary for her. The memory is like a blur. My head was racing, my rosary beads were twisting, my stomach was clenching, my hands were shaking, and my heart was aching. Even though I sat in a chair in my living room, every part of me seemed to be in motion. I was anxious to get to the emergency room, but from somewhere inside a voice repeated. Pray. Pray. Pray.
“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust” seems like such a dark way to portray death. Anyone who has ever lost a beloved knows that death is both cruelly final and endlessly enduring. The love, influence, and lessons the deceased impart doesn’t stop with their heartbeat.
I want to be on fire for God, but sometimes I feel more like the worn edges of two sticks that were furiously rubbed together but never produced a spark.