Patti and Polar
Today I am thinking about my dogs.
Mark forwarded me an old email he came across that I wrote in the spring of 2006 when Polar was sick. And at dinner today Valerie and I talked about death. About how different deaths had affected us.
In my life, two deaths have made me cry. Tariq, and Polar. When I got the email about Tariq I didn't absorb it for several minutes. I thought I could just go to bed. Then suddenly I was waking up my mom. I started telling her, and as soon as I spoke, I was sobbing. I cried for hours.
I didn't cry when Polar died. But I cried when my dad first told me, on the phone, that it was lung cancer. Because that was when his death became real. And I cried when he coughed and wheezed and I couldn't help him. I cried because I always yelled at him. Because I screamed, cursed at him when he just wouldn't shut up. Because all he wanted was to run around and bark and we'd spent his whole life desperately trying to deny him that pleasure. Because suddenly his life looked miserable, days locked in our kitchen, always so confused when we were angry. Because I was suddenly crushed with guilt. And the guilt came out as tears.
Other deaths I have experienced have not been so sudden and have not come with guilt. Those deaths have not made me cry.
I tell students that I have two dogs in America. I'm not quite sure why it comes out in present tense. Somehow it feels wrong to introduce kids to the existence of two dogs and to their deaths in the same instant. Or maybe there's some sort of psychological release for me in letting them continue to exist, to be alive in someone's mind.
I first started this blog when Polar was sick. Here is what I wrote at the time:
I'm sitting on my couch right now listening to the Vanessa Carlton album I just bought, pausing between each song to listen to see if Polar's coughing. Last time I checked he was lying at the bottom of the basement stairs and breathing all right. It's not the fact that he's going to die soon that hurts most sharply...I think I'm relatively good at accepting the inevitability and importance of death, especially for an eleven-and-a-half-year-old dog. What's painful is when I hear or see him so uncomfortable, and I have visions of him going into a coughing fit, raspy breathing, getting worse and worse, looking at me with that hopeful, pleading, scared expression of his, like just because I'm the Mistress of the Milkbone Dog Treats, a magic being who controls food, water, and dog doors, I should be able to solve this for him, but I can't, until finally he just can't breathe anymore and his last moments are spent terrified and gasping for breath. That's the thought that makes my chest tighten. I suppose that's why people go for euthansia, because then at least his last moments can seem more pleasant. And if he really seemed to be in obvious distress and fear and misery all the time, I think I would be okay with that. But he's not like that yet. I'm just scared of not being able to make him happy and comfortable.
And a few days later...
When I came downstairs and she was barking, I said to her "don't worry girl, he'll be back, I promise." As I spoke the word "promise" I winced a bit, realizing I shouldn't jinx anything, and I almost looked for some wood to knock on, but decided this was too serious for that.
A few seconds later the phone rang. A part of me knew that when I answered it, I would find out my promise was false. Sure enough, he's not coming back.
Now is it silly that what I feel worst about is having lied to Patti?
And last spring, after Patti died:
Patti and I understood each other, and have since the day we got her, the day she walked over to me and jumped up onto my lap when she could have fled down Cedar Avenue. I loved Polar deeply but Patti was mine, my dog. When she first got sick I thought I could never consent to hastening her death. But I was wrong. She was sad and uncomfortable. She'd lived her life. I've already spent the last three and a half years missing her. Now I miss her less. Now she's ended the time that she was destined to be in our house, and I feel happy for her, happy that she loved me, happy that she came back that first day, happy that we understood each other.
Thank you, Patti.
When Polar died I made a compilation CD. The first song on it was Paul's version of Mary Had a Little Lamb. So for Polar and for Patti,
Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.
It followed her to school one day; it was against the rules.
It made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school.
And so the teacher turned it out, but still it lingered near.
It waited patiently about 'til Mary did appear.
"Why does the lamb love Mary so?" the eager children cried.
"Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know," the teacher did reply.
Mark forwarded me an old email he came across that I wrote in the spring of 2006 when Polar was sick. And at dinner today Valerie and I talked about death. About how different deaths had affected us.
In my life, two deaths have made me cry. Tariq, and Polar. When I got the email about Tariq I didn't absorb it for several minutes. I thought I could just go to bed. Then suddenly I was waking up my mom. I started telling her, and as soon as I spoke, I was sobbing. I cried for hours.
I didn't cry when Polar died. But I cried when my dad first told me, on the phone, that it was lung cancer. Because that was when his death became real. And I cried when he coughed and wheezed and I couldn't help him. I cried because I always yelled at him. Because I screamed, cursed at him when he just wouldn't shut up. Because all he wanted was to run around and bark and we'd spent his whole life desperately trying to deny him that pleasure. Because suddenly his life looked miserable, days locked in our kitchen, always so confused when we were angry. Because I was suddenly crushed with guilt. And the guilt came out as tears.
Other deaths I have experienced have not been so sudden and have not come with guilt. Those deaths have not made me cry.
I tell students that I have two dogs in America. I'm not quite sure why it comes out in present tense. Somehow it feels wrong to introduce kids to the existence of two dogs and to their deaths in the same instant. Or maybe there's some sort of psychological release for me in letting them continue to exist, to be alive in someone's mind.
I first started this blog when Polar was sick. Here is what I wrote at the time:
I'm sitting on my couch right now listening to the Vanessa Carlton album I just bought, pausing between each song to listen to see if Polar's coughing. Last time I checked he was lying at the bottom of the basement stairs and breathing all right. It's not the fact that he's going to die soon that hurts most sharply...I think I'm relatively good at accepting the inevitability and importance of death, especially for an eleven-and-a-half-year-old dog. What's painful is when I hear or see him so uncomfortable, and I have visions of him going into a coughing fit, raspy breathing, getting worse and worse, looking at me with that hopeful, pleading, scared expression of his, like just because I'm the Mistress of the Milkbone Dog Treats, a magic being who controls food, water, and dog doors, I should be able to solve this for him, but I can't, until finally he just can't breathe anymore and his last moments are spent terrified and gasping for breath. That's the thought that makes my chest tighten. I suppose that's why people go for euthansia, because then at least his last moments can seem more pleasant. And if he really seemed to be in obvious distress and fear and misery all the time, I think I would be okay with that. But he's not like that yet. I'm just scared of not being able to make him happy and comfortable.
And a few days later...
When I came downstairs and she was barking, I said to her "don't worry girl, he'll be back, I promise." As I spoke the word "promise" I winced a bit, realizing I shouldn't jinx anything, and I almost looked for some wood to knock on, but decided this was too serious for that.
A few seconds later the phone rang. A part of me knew that when I answered it, I would find out my promise was false. Sure enough, he's not coming back.
Now is it silly that what I feel worst about is having lied to Patti?
And last spring, after Patti died:
Patti and I understood each other, and have since the day we got her, the day she walked over to me and jumped up onto my lap when she could have fled down Cedar Avenue. I loved Polar deeply but Patti was mine, my dog. When she first got sick I thought I could never consent to hastening her death. But I was wrong. She was sad and uncomfortable. She'd lived her life. I've already spent the last three and a half years missing her. Now I miss her less. Now she's ended the time that she was destined to be in our house, and I feel happy for her, happy that she loved me, happy that she came back that first day, happy that we understood each other.
Thank you, Patti.
When Polar died I made a compilation CD. The first song on it was Paul's version of Mary Had a Little Lamb. So for Polar and for Patti,
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.
It followed her to school one day; it was against the rules.
It made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school.
And so the teacher turned it out, but still it lingered near.
It waited patiently about 'til Mary did appear.
"Why does the lamb love Mary so?" the eager children cried.
"Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know," the teacher did reply.
posted by Ashila at 7:49 AM
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