Four Feet Down

It has been a week of loss for us here at our home in the woods. We are, again, without a beloved shepherd to keep us company. I imagine by now some people are wondering why we don’t cut our losses and adopt a homeless mutt at the local animal shelter. But if you have ever loved a German shepherd you know why that would be hard to do.

 For now, we will remain a one-dog family as a we assess the pain and pick up the doggy-sized pieces. This one all the more painful because it comes with the weight of judgement upon myself. It was only nine months ago that I held my last shepherd in my arms to die after opting to put him down after he bit part of my earlobe off. This week I will be having my third procedure to restore my ear.

 Most people, it seemed, understood the exceedingly painful choice I felt I had to make. And I think most, but not all, understand the heartbreaking choice I made last week.

 Last night I took my first long walk by myself, hands free of dog treats and leash. I headed out the back garage door and down the muddy trail, deer tracks instead of paw prints scattered before me. At the first clearing before our large apple trees on the edge of our farm field I saw a doe and a fawn. As I walked through our neighbor’s freshly mowed path I spotted another doe in the distance. 

 When I doubled back I walked a zig zag through the rows of soybeans, and bounding ahead before a new path cut through the woods with our pull-behind mower, were two bucks watching me. I stopped and froze in place and strained my eyes to see if I could count the number of points these two had between them on their antlers. As I stepped forward, they ran into the woods, trampling down the overgrown weeds and wildflowers.

 When I turned to walk back I was rewarded with a closer look at these two bucks as they seemed to have doubled back before me. I was bending to pick some ripe raspberries at the edge of our property when I heard my husband urgently calling my name. I had lost track of time walking on my own. I looked at my watch and stared at the sky and was shocked to see that it was nearly 9 p.m.

 I yelled back to my husband but he must not have heard my voice, lost in the trees, that make up the forest around the edges of our yard. I walked as fast as I could across the rocky path before me, since my husband’s voice was growing louder and more panicked.

 When I at last reached him, I could see he was not amused. I made a joke anyway and we walked hand-in-hand back to our house, left our muddy shoes at the door and stepped inside.

 There have not been many days over our 27-year marriage when we have walked into our home without being greeted by a German shepherd. 

 Our first, Koryo, we bought without any knowledge of breeders, knowing only that we wanted a shepherd. He lived to the age of 12 and when he died, our whole family, particularly our oldest son, who never lived a day without this dog, grieved. 

 Our next shepherd, my gentle giant named Nitro, died suddenly of bloat hours after I picked him up from the dog kennel after spending the night in Madison. I was by myself and his growing pain was obvious. When I rushed him to the emergency clinic their diagnosis was quick. He too, died in my arms. He was seven.

 It seemed impossible, but less than two years later our next shepherd, Echo, died of an intestinal torsion. We had a surgical team repair it and he spent days in intensive care. He never was the same again, though. He died before Christmas that year.

 And next, of course, my Otto, who helped me accomplish more than I ever thought possible. Had I known ahead of time the hours I would invest to attain a title on this black beauty I would have called him my lap dog, removed his fur saver collar and tucked his bite-sized training treats into a Ziploc bag for walks in the park.

 Zoey was my first female shepherd. All of our dogs have had names ending in “O.” Though we just couldn’t come up with a female name that ended in “O” and so I liked to call her “Zo Zo.”

It is the unique qualities of every person, animal, plant…thing, that make this world what it is. And so for every person and dog who has entered my life, I have become what I am. There are times when this person I am feels lost and alone – without a friend, without a dog, but with plenty of things. After this last week of hurt and loss, I am more apt to invest in my things and leave the rest to, well, rest.

 And I wish I could lose track of my losses as easily as I lose track of time. The hardest losses are those that come in pairs, that we do not expect, on the tail end of mournful eyes who cannot feel secure in this world, as it is. That was my Zo Zo – fearful and scared, except for the moments she was in the presence of my husband and me. Imagine that and make a choice. Our dog, or other people. The weight of judgment upon myself knowing that no matter what, there is a loss.

 But losses make us stronger and pain makes us real and hard choices make us human.  So if you are a human being who has been in pain and made choices and become stronger along the way, that seems about right for most of us. As Anne Lamott said: “Some people have a thick skin and you don’t. Your heart is really open and that is going to cause pain, but that is an appropriate response to this world.”