For he was small but brave of heart…
For when he slept he snored only a little.
For he could be silly and noble in the same moment…
For when he sniffed it was as if her were being
pleased by every part of the world…
For he was a mixture of gravity and waggery…
For there was nothing sweeter than his peace
when at rest…
For he loved me…
For when he lay down to enter sleep he did not argue…
(From: “For I Will Consider My Dog Percy,” in Dog Songs, by Mary Oliver, 2013)
Back in November, I wrote about the comfort we humans take from pets, describing our dog, Kramer, an aging canine companion, a toy poodle-terrier mix… (he) has been at my side through cancer, heart failure, surgery and recovery, attentive to my every mood and eternally vigilant, a pint-sized protector who barks loudly when strangers come to the door. We have …a strong and enduring bond… (from a previous post, November 17, 2013)
Kramer died this past Thursday, his demise sudden and unexpected, unlike the death of our Westie, Winston, who’d lived for seventeen years, and, as I wrote before, likely kept alive for a couple of extra years by Kramer’s persistent adoration and enthusiasm for his older playmate. In Winston’s final days, Kramer stood vigil, quiet and attentive, seemingly aware that his buddy was failing. After Winston’s death, his grief was palpable. He retreated to the shady spot underneath our deck where his older companion spent his final days, staying there a full week to mourn, only willing to come indoors in the evening. Always faithful, he mourned Winston’s loss as deeply as we did.
I held Kramer in my arms in the final hour before his death, nuzzling his furry coat and weeping as he, ever attentive to my emotional state, kept licking my face as if to reassure me that everything was going to be all right. And it will be of course, but the house seems empty and forlorn without him, and whenever I gaze out to the back garden from my office window, where Kramer’s body now rests a few yards from Winston’s, my eyes fill with tears again.
I remembered my childhood these past days and the first time we lost a pet, a cat named Snowball. She had been a great teacher to us. From Snowball, we learned about birth, standing vigil like little physician’s assistants to administer help as she bore her first and only litter of kittens. We learned about love, and we learned about death and sorrow. There were other pets as we grew–turtles, goldfish, lizards—each accorded a funeral when they died, always attended by our neighborhood playmates, and buried in the far end of the back yard where Snowball’s remains also lay. Finally, our parents relented and let us have a dog, Tico, part Toy terrier, part Chihuahua, who had the heart of a warrior despite his small size. It was Tico who saved my brother’s life when our family home burned to the ground, licking his face and barking to awaken him from a deep sleep as his bedroom caught fire. Tico was ten, dying only a year later, but he had wrapped himself around our hearts so completely, and his death was deeply mourned by us all. He was, as far as we were concerned, an extraordinary hero.
Our bonds with our pets are strong and deep, extolled in poetry, essays, memoirs and novels. Our pets offer companionship, loyalty, unflinching devotion, comfort and joy.
We open the door and he glides away without a backward glance…running along the edge of the water, into the first pink suggestion of sunrise. And we are caught by the old affinity, a joyfulness—his great and seemly pleasure in the physical world. Because of the dog’s joyfulness our own is increased. It is no small gift. …What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs? (From Dog Songs: Poems, by Mary Oliver, Penguin Press, 2013.)
What would this world be like without…a dog, a cat, a pet we love? Perhaps you have—or have had—a pet that is special in some way, who offered you comfort or joy. Why not write about that pet this week? Capture his or her attributes, behavior, the kinds of things that made you smile, the way he or she endeared themselves to you. What memories do you have of that pet?
Kramer’s death is still fresh, my emotions still raw, and for a time yet, his absence will feel unfamiliar, a sharp stab of loss each time I enter the house. Yet even as he died, he offered me a little reminder of his uniqueness, the thing about him that always made me smile. His ears. They were his hallmark, surely inherited from Yoda of Star Wars fame. Kramer died, this funny little companion, with his ears fully erect, just as in life. The ears, his semaphore flags, always raised whenever he eyed us expectantly, signaling his perpetual question: “So guys, what’s happening?”
For Kramer, 2000 – 2014.
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