Originally published in Colorado Central Magazine
On winter mornings I get up and go out to the back yard while the coffee perks, just to be under the stars in the quiet time before dawn. Our dog Joe comes out with me out to sniff the air for other early morning wanderers. In late November a celestial parade kicks off in the north where Cassiopeia, the vain Greek goddess, is setting. Three of her stars are now known to have planets circling them, like children playing around her skirts. Maybe that’s what she’s proud of. On her left is the Pleiades flock, and just north of west is Orion, finishing the night hunt with his dog Sirius in the west. I used to think that the Dog Star was following the Hunter, but after living with a herding dog, I’ve learned that the Hunter is the one who follows along behind. After settling the stars, we go inside, I pour up the coffee, and Joe joins me on the sunroom couch where I write this stuff.
Joe came into our lives fourteen years ago via a ranch pickup in the Walmart parking lot. He was a Border Collie- Heeler mix who wasn’t allowed to compete in herding trials and needed to be disposed of, one way or another. His humble start didn’t deter him from becoming an intelligent, courteous, and loving member of our family and circle of friends. We’d had good dogs before, but that was before I understood that while dogs can just be pets, some of them have the potential to become family members, if their humans are well-trained. Anyone who’s had a close relationship to a non-human person can understand why indigenous peoples recognize consciousness in all things. It’s only recently that we’ve bought into the illusion that humans are separate from other beings, an illusion that causes untold suffering.
Joe and I enjoyed many of the same things: the sights, sounds and smells of the woods, a game of Chase-Me With-The-Ball, and an afternoon snooze together with him tucked behind my legs on the couch. Unlike me, he took delight in chasing tennis balls and chewing them into shards which we would later find on the carpet under our bare feet. He also took keen interest in smelling things that I thought were distinctly un-interesting. Joe cleaned our plates after meals. Yep: a good dog is also a valuable kitchen appliance. We called his service our Pre-Wash Cycle, and we undoubtedly saved a ton on hot dishwater.
We lived our indoor and outdoor lives together, nearly free of injuries and late-life ailments. We even slowed down together as I moved through my mid-seventies. Joe lost his hearing that last year and his eyesight was dimming. On the next-to-last day in November, he was playful in the morning as usual. Around 2:30 in the afternoon we left to meet friends on the edge of a favorite aspen grove for a last-of-the-year Cocktail Hour. Lately he hadn’t been able to jump up into the truck, so I lifted him into his favorite spot on the back seat floor. When we got up to the grove, he didn’t want to get out, which was odd. It was too cold and windy for sitting out in the sunset, so we all came back to the house for pizza together. But Joe couldn’t get out of the truck.
I lifted him out and he whimpered, which was also unusual. He went ahead into the yard but collapsed to his side just inside the gate. He rested a minute and got up, went inside with us, and lay down on his pillow. We finished our meal without lingering. I sat down next to him and realized he was having a stroke. I got out a sleeping pad and bag and laid down next to him. It was a long night, with him shifting restlessly and me stroking his head or just touching him, telling him it was okay to go on ahead. At about 3:30 he lifted his head, rolled onto his side and was gone.
The next morning, we laid his worn-out, beautiful body in a private spot in that aspen grove above the Valley, thinking his spirit, freed from its cocoon, could roam the places we once hiked together… but darned if he didn’t follow us back down the mountain and is curled up beside me once again on the couch. But now when I think to reach out to stroke his soft ears and muzzle, the thought has a solemn echo, and I don’t move my hand.
My sister, who trains service dogs and their humans, advises me that the process will take time and to let the tears come. She ought to know; she’s loved and lost a few grand dogs over the years, not to mention two husbands and a lovely ranch. I haven’t shed many tears, but while we were up in the aspen grove, some racking sobs broke free. There are frequent catches in the chest and a mental step back from the edge when I glance toward a spot where Joe should be. I stand there, staring at nothing, and realize this will indeed take its own time. The grief of loss is only one side of a coin; the other is the joy of having been together all those years. They can’t be separated.
Someone recently told me that grief lasts as long as love, so I looked up the best description of love that I know of, St. Paul’s in his first letter to the Christians in Corinth. Here’s part of it:
Love … bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
I always thought the passage was an instruction about how we should love. Now I know it tells us that when love arises within us, it never fails; we can count on it forever.
So you run on ahead Joe; I’ll be along before too long.