Please be aware that this is a deeply personal blog, containing nothing from the etheric, and nothing beneficial from a learning perspective.
It's all about me, so you may choose not to read on.
It's all about me, so you may choose not to read on.
Some while ago, a friend posted something like this on my personal Facebook page.
"It came to me that every time I loose a dog, they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the component parts of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are." Anonymous
It's a nice sentiment, but I can't vouch for its truth.
Yesterday we lost Indiana Jones, who became the fifteenth canine soul to have touched our lives deeply, only to leave us all too soon. In dog ownership terms, fifteen is an awfully big number, and for most 'normal' owners, is probably somewhere near four times the average number they will get to share their lives with. Many reading this will know the agony of such a loss having experienced it themselves whilst some will live in dread of a time to come. I know many who have never gotten over the pounding waves of grief that wash over them to this day, even though a loss may have come many decades previously. I generally prefer not to give rein to grief, but today I'm taking the unusual step of explaining precisely how it effects me.
Grief is a funny thing. People deal with it totally differently and I believe one of the cruelest things we can expect of anyone is that they will experience this potentially devastating emotion in the same way that we do. So this is very much an 'I' blog. I can't speak for Sharon, although I can confidently reveal that she has cherished and mourned our canine family members every bit as much as I have, maybe more.
What I can attest to is that each and every doggie companion we have lost has taken a piece of my heart with them. Some have nibbled at the edges. Some have taken huge chunks out of me. And whilst we have plenty more to give back, who certainly do help and offer support (unwittingly or otherwise) there's never quite enough to plug the hole which, for a couple of years now, I have thought of as my personal Well of Sorrow.
It is only as recently as nine years ago that the Well was completely dry and not so much as a drop of grief had poured into it. For me, it's waters are uniquely filled by the tears for the animals we have lost. I could claimed that I'm ashamed to say that human loss does not really effect me, but I've had plenty of those and the truth is they don't, and I'm not really ashamed of it. The first buckets were brought to my Well when we lost Rittee, one of our Siamese cats, not many months after moving to Canada. He was seventeen and died of kidney failure. His sister, Sasha, went a year later, shortly followed by Ariana (Sage in the books), the Siberian Husky who was only with us for twenty seven days. She brought along a hosepipe and from then on there's never really been an opportunity for the well to run dry.
A year and half of respite helped before the rain started in earnest. It pitter-pattered when it was time for the geriatric and enchantingly senile Husky, Midnight (Saffy in the books) to go. We knew she was dying of liver disease when we took her in, and so we were well prepared. In fact the knowledge that we'd given her a loving home for her last few months helped a great deal. But a mighty storm arrived when a couple of months later (Husky) Joe, who we'd rescued on the same trip as Midnight only eight months before, succumbed to general systemic failure. He was our first avatar to leave us, but since he's remained with us ever since, a constant gentle and wise presence, things didn't seem too bad. But from then on a kind of dull regularity for experiencing loss set in .
Ktuu, our first ancient and much beloved Malamute left us next and the clouds set in for the long haul. Cinnda (Husky) who we'd had brought to our home at the same time as Ktuu passed from cancer a year later, and then a year after that, a raging tornado arrived when Kaiti the Shar Pei, our first ever dog and one of my most faithful acolytes left us. That was a bad year, as within a month, Sweet Pea a troubled but dignified old lady Malamute had gone; and then Pippa, English Pointer and Kaiti's erstwhile nemesis, left us. Just when that seemed enough for one year, Sophie another wonderful Malamute pensioner took her final bow. Annie, our crusty but sweet Rough Collie caused a major cloud burst for me the following year; but then the mother of all tropical storms seemed to come for good when our sainted Grand Bassett Griffon Vendeen, Dougal died, mid that same year.
Last year proved no less of an annus horribilis when Kaya, my wonderful and cherished Husky, went out like a light that turned out to be a bolt of lightning amidst a personal maelstrom; followed all to quickly by cancer claiming little Emily (Petit Bassett Griffon Vendeen), whose flood waters still lap at my ankles. Then this year's rainy season began with the ever tragic Daisy (Grand Bassett Griffon Vendeen) also succumbing to cancer. And yesterday, a monsoon hit with Indy at its epicentre.
That's a depressing catalogue, isn't it? The reader may be forgiven for wondering why I'm writing this blog, but of course you can work out that it's therapeutic for me. It allows some of the downpour to rise to the surface and edges of the Well of Sorrow and give me a spraying, without giving me the thorough soaking that it can so easily threaten.
In truth, it has only been in the last two or three years that I have recognised the Well of Sorrows for what it is, and felt that I'm drowning in the waters it holds. This nearly always occurs when I'm on a long haul rescue trip to liberate another avatar and bring it back to our fold. It's never on the return journey, when I have their blessed company to protect me from my own demons of precipitation; but always on the outbound when I have maybe several days of constant and mindless driving, with nothing to do but think. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to dogs; those at home, the one I'm collecting, and those who are no longer with us. The well waters rise rapidly. Bitter experience has taught me to always travel with a full box of tissues as no journey has yet been completed without a damn bursting in my soul and a tempestuous outpouring of grief gushing forth that can all too easily make me feel like I am drowning. The Interstates are always mercifully broad and empty. I am confident that no passing vehicle can ever wonder at the guy in the SUV traveling in the opposite direction, sobbing his heart out. But a tidal bore of this strength is always guaranteed to leave my eyes puffy and red for a long time afterwards; so I do have to be careful what rest stops I make so as to avoid curious stares. When the Well's powerful undertow takes a hold of me, I have to struggle to reach the surface for all I'm worth to be free of it; or I am left to be tossed within its distressing vicissitudes for a few hours before the tide eventually recedes by itself (although rip tides may still threaten). I am left feeling washed out with swollen, strained eyes and a headache, plus a floor area awash with damp tissues. Having survived the Well of Sorrow, I can experience relief that I have merely been submerged, but not asphyxiated by it's latest inundation. But never for a moment can I allow myself to be deceived that it has gone for good.
Right now, I'm not at risk. I'm safe surrounded by forty five hairy beings who, inadvertently or otherwise, are doing their damnedest to gift me a piece of their hearts and be my personal life preserver. My tears can fill the Well without fear of more than a moderate overspill. Curiously, I have also discovered that burying the dogs rather than having them cremated is a salve, and offers me a more comforting closure to their all too brief lives. Yet lurking within me, Iies the barely suppressed knowledge that the Well of Sorrow is unfathomable. It will wait a few weeks while I go through this latest deluge, and then assume the appearance of a tranquil mill pond. I'll be lulled into a false sense of calm and even be tempted to dip into it to experience the bitter sweet memories each and every drop of its waters hold. But I have to be careful. The waters in the Well are dark and treacherous. We still have forty five treasured souls with us, and with each being that will inevitably depart, year by passing year, it's seemingly benign waters will become ever more perilous.
For now I am forced to accept that one day, it may all become too much. If I am careless, the gentlest of immersions in the Well of Sorrow will take a hold of me, drag me down, fill me up and burst my heart in a way that no being, canine or otherwise, will ever be able to make whole again. I will be washed away by the sorrowful waters of the well and become one with all of those who have left us, and all of those who, agonizingly, tragically, are destined to do so.
Perhaps that's the way it's meant to be?
[Barking Lounge members may be interested in 'Big. Reflections upon Indiana Jones' in the Barking Diaries section of the website. Pack Providers are also invited to view 'Indiana Jones - A Photographic Retrospective' within their exclusive section of the site.]
"It came to me that every time I loose a dog, they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the component parts of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are." Anonymous
It's a nice sentiment, but I can't vouch for its truth.
Yesterday we lost Indiana Jones, who became the fifteenth canine soul to have touched our lives deeply, only to leave us all too soon. In dog ownership terms, fifteen is an awfully big number, and for most 'normal' owners, is probably somewhere near four times the average number they will get to share their lives with. Many reading this will know the agony of such a loss having experienced it themselves whilst some will live in dread of a time to come. I know many who have never gotten over the pounding waves of grief that wash over them to this day, even though a loss may have come many decades previously. I generally prefer not to give rein to grief, but today I'm taking the unusual step of explaining precisely how it effects me.
Grief is a funny thing. People deal with it totally differently and I believe one of the cruelest things we can expect of anyone is that they will experience this potentially devastating emotion in the same way that we do. So this is very much an 'I' blog. I can't speak for Sharon, although I can confidently reveal that she has cherished and mourned our canine family members every bit as much as I have, maybe more.
What I can attest to is that each and every doggie companion we have lost has taken a piece of my heart with them. Some have nibbled at the edges. Some have taken huge chunks out of me. And whilst we have plenty more to give back, who certainly do help and offer support (unwittingly or otherwise) there's never quite enough to plug the hole which, for a couple of years now, I have thought of as my personal Well of Sorrow.
It is only as recently as nine years ago that the Well was completely dry and not so much as a drop of grief had poured into it. For me, it's waters are uniquely filled by the tears for the animals we have lost. I could claimed that I'm ashamed to say that human loss does not really effect me, but I've had plenty of those and the truth is they don't, and I'm not really ashamed of it. The first buckets were brought to my Well when we lost Rittee, one of our Siamese cats, not many months after moving to Canada. He was seventeen and died of kidney failure. His sister, Sasha, went a year later, shortly followed by Ariana (Sage in the books), the Siberian Husky who was only with us for twenty seven days. She brought along a hosepipe and from then on there's never really been an opportunity for the well to run dry.
A year and half of respite helped before the rain started in earnest. It pitter-pattered when it was time for the geriatric and enchantingly senile Husky, Midnight (Saffy in the books) to go. We knew she was dying of liver disease when we took her in, and so we were well prepared. In fact the knowledge that we'd given her a loving home for her last few months helped a great deal. But a mighty storm arrived when a couple of months later (Husky) Joe, who we'd rescued on the same trip as Midnight only eight months before, succumbed to general systemic failure. He was our first avatar to leave us, but since he's remained with us ever since, a constant gentle and wise presence, things didn't seem too bad. But from then on a kind of dull regularity for experiencing loss set in .
Ktuu, our first ancient and much beloved Malamute left us next and the clouds set in for the long haul. Cinnda (Husky) who we'd had brought to our home at the same time as Ktuu passed from cancer a year later, and then a year after that, a raging tornado arrived when Kaiti the Shar Pei, our first ever dog and one of my most faithful acolytes left us. That was a bad year, as within a month, Sweet Pea a troubled but dignified old lady Malamute had gone; and then Pippa, English Pointer and Kaiti's erstwhile nemesis, left us. Just when that seemed enough for one year, Sophie another wonderful Malamute pensioner took her final bow. Annie, our crusty but sweet Rough Collie caused a major cloud burst for me the following year; but then the mother of all tropical storms seemed to come for good when our sainted Grand Bassett Griffon Vendeen, Dougal died, mid that same year.
Last year proved no less of an annus horribilis when Kaya, my wonderful and cherished Husky, went out like a light that turned out to be a bolt of lightning amidst a personal maelstrom; followed all to quickly by cancer claiming little Emily (Petit Bassett Griffon Vendeen), whose flood waters still lap at my ankles. Then this year's rainy season began with the ever tragic Daisy (Grand Bassett Griffon Vendeen) also succumbing to cancer. And yesterday, a monsoon hit with Indy at its epicentre.
That's a depressing catalogue, isn't it? The reader may be forgiven for wondering why I'm writing this blog, but of course you can work out that it's therapeutic for me. It allows some of the downpour to rise to the surface and edges of the Well of Sorrow and give me a spraying, without giving me the thorough soaking that it can so easily threaten.
In truth, it has only been in the last two or three years that I have recognised the Well of Sorrows for what it is, and felt that I'm drowning in the waters it holds. This nearly always occurs when I'm on a long haul rescue trip to liberate another avatar and bring it back to our fold. It's never on the return journey, when I have their blessed company to protect me from my own demons of precipitation; but always on the outbound when I have maybe several days of constant and mindless driving, with nothing to do but think. Inevitably, my thoughts turn to dogs; those at home, the one I'm collecting, and those who are no longer with us. The well waters rise rapidly. Bitter experience has taught me to always travel with a full box of tissues as no journey has yet been completed without a damn bursting in my soul and a tempestuous outpouring of grief gushing forth that can all too easily make me feel like I am drowning. The Interstates are always mercifully broad and empty. I am confident that no passing vehicle can ever wonder at the guy in the SUV traveling in the opposite direction, sobbing his heart out. But a tidal bore of this strength is always guaranteed to leave my eyes puffy and red for a long time afterwards; so I do have to be careful what rest stops I make so as to avoid curious stares. When the Well's powerful undertow takes a hold of me, I have to struggle to reach the surface for all I'm worth to be free of it; or I am left to be tossed within its distressing vicissitudes for a few hours before the tide eventually recedes by itself (although rip tides may still threaten). I am left feeling washed out with swollen, strained eyes and a headache, plus a floor area awash with damp tissues. Having survived the Well of Sorrow, I can experience relief that I have merely been submerged, but not asphyxiated by it's latest inundation. But never for a moment can I allow myself to be deceived that it has gone for good.
Right now, I'm not at risk. I'm safe surrounded by forty five hairy beings who, inadvertently or otherwise, are doing their damnedest to gift me a piece of their hearts and be my personal life preserver. My tears can fill the Well without fear of more than a moderate overspill. Curiously, I have also discovered that burying the dogs rather than having them cremated is a salve, and offers me a more comforting closure to their all too brief lives. Yet lurking within me, Iies the barely suppressed knowledge that the Well of Sorrow is unfathomable. It will wait a few weeks while I go through this latest deluge, and then assume the appearance of a tranquil mill pond. I'll be lulled into a false sense of calm and even be tempted to dip into it to experience the bitter sweet memories each and every drop of its waters hold. But I have to be careful. The waters in the Well are dark and treacherous. We still have forty five treasured souls with us, and with each being that will inevitably depart, year by passing year, it's seemingly benign waters will become ever more perilous.
For now I am forced to accept that one day, it may all become too much. If I am careless, the gentlest of immersions in the Well of Sorrow will take a hold of me, drag me down, fill me up and burst my heart in a way that no being, canine or otherwise, will ever be able to make whole again. I will be washed away by the sorrowful waters of the well and become one with all of those who have left us, and all of those who, agonizingly, tragically, are destined to do so.
Perhaps that's the way it's meant to be?
[Barking Lounge members may be interested in 'Big. Reflections upon Indiana Jones' in the Barking Diaries section of the website. Pack Providers are also invited to view 'Indiana Jones - A Photographic Retrospective' within their exclusive section of the site.]