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Published: September 24th 2006
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Tosha
May you be the person your dog thinks you are. Two weeks ago my uncle Fred died. Then my dog Tosha followed. And right after, Ray, a yoga teacher friend went as well. There’s been a whole lot of impermanence going on. Surprisingly, it was the loss of my dog that hit me hardest.
The news came in an email and lucky for me, I was at home so I could let the tears flow in private. It signaled the closing of another chapter of my Alaska life. The message came from Sven and Laura who told me that it was time to help Tosha move to the next plane. She was way past 15 years old and lately has been having seizures.
Here’s part of Sven’s message:
“Tosha has wiggled her little self into our hearts more than I ever imagined and the thought she will be gone makes us very sad. There are many signs that clearly speak for our decision, but the brief moments in which Tosha gathers all her energy and looks at us with still curious eyes make it so hard. However, we really want her to go on a good note and waiting until the next seizure just doesn't make sense to us.
“This week we have been taking Tosha to places she always liked and we've been getting her on short and slow walks to the field. Now that we've set the date, many things are going to be done for "the last time," which has a somewhat morbid but also a very passionate quality. The vet will come this Friday, Sept. 15 at 5 p.m. our time.
“Maybe you have the chance to be with her in your thoughts. I'm sure there will be a new bright star in the sky that night. We are going to have her cremated and spread her ashes over the field.”
I’m quoting from Sven’s message for several reasons. One is his pure poetry in describing this particular dog. Tosha was a wiggler and she touched a lot of human lives. She was generously insistent that she get the attention due her as a sentient being. Although she’d wait her turn, when she’d decided she had waited long enough, she’d nuzzle her nose under her keeper’s arm and pester them till she’d gone out for a walk.
I left her several times over the years as I went to France, Australia, Denver and finally China. Each time, she was with friends and each time, she wiggled her way into their hearts.
The second reason I appreciated his mail is the thoughtful consideration he used in ending Tosha’s life. To think he and Laura took her out for her few last walks to her favorite places filled my heart with love. Having myself left several places in the last few years, I have developed a practice in which I tell myself “I may never be here again.” It adds an immediacy and appreciation for even the most mundane action. The last walk with Clay and Emma to school in Denver, the last baguette from the bakery below my Paris apartment, the last drink at the Top Pub in Byron Bay, the last walk through Mayo’s hay field. The last time I looked into Tosha’s eyes, gave her a hug and walked away.
That Tosha had an assigned death date made the moments before even more precious. Years ago, a counselor assigned me a death date as an exercise in appreciating the moment. The lesson was largely lost on me at the time, the date came and went, but it prepared me for Tosha’s last days.
Then after my initial tearfest, I took the lesson of impermanence into my classroom. There is a yoga principle called Aparigraha that is often translated to “non-possessiveness.” It can also be read as “non-greed” and “non-attachment.”
My tearful reaction demonstrated my obvious attachment to a dog I’d been friends with for nearly as long as I’d been in Alaska. It surprised me. I thought I’d let it go. But that is how attachments are. “Ain’t that the way it always goes,” Joni Mitchell sang “that you don’t know what you got till it’s gone.” And sometimes there is no way to know if it’s gone, till something happens. I thought I left that dog behind, but she was still with me. Fortunately a part of her still is.
I’ve been using the “let go” lesson a lot as there seems no end to the practice. Although it’s reflected in every breath I take and every day I live, it seems still to take the shock of losing a loved one to wake up to these daily losses.
And that is the beauty of a dog. They offer their unconditional appreciation and their life is long enough to get attached but short enough to demand that we let go.
The case was different for my two human friends. Uncle Fred gave me my first nearly real job. I was 15 and for $1.50 an hour, he paid me to steam generations of paper off the walls of a house he was renovating in Wilmington. It was his side business and besides steaming paper, I got on terms with other tools requiring muscle like shovels and sledges. It was good work and helped launch me into one of my many professions, this one as a carpenter’s helper. Fortunately, I knew Fred was getting old and the last time I was home, I made a point to go visit. He wasn’t terribly happy. His body was giving out and it hurt. In some ways it seemed like he was just waiting around for his transition. Before I left, I thanked him for giving me my start as a carpenter. It was the last I saw of him.
Things with Ray were different. He and I went to yoga school together in Byron Bay. He was a solid contributor to our men’s group and always had kind words for others. Having come from Ireland, he had a gift and passion for words and before he died in what I understand was a swimming accident, he was traveling the world teaching yoga and touching people’s lives. He was just 35 and it is sad to think I will never see him again.
And that is what brings me back to Tosha. That Sven, Laura and I knew when her passing would come gave us each an opportunity to appreciate the last walks and last memories. But among our human friends, my generalized social fear of death often prevents me from acknowledging how quickly it can come. One day someone is here, the next they are gone. It might not be appropriate to bring it up in everyday conversation but from time to time, I intend to.
“Don’t for a minute think you won’t die,” Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron says. It’s her call to live our lives with as much purpose and vigor as possible. And to appreciate every moment we are allowed to bring kindness and beauty to others.
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Joan
non-member comment
on transitions
Oh John, the beauty and depth of your and Sven's thoughts touch me deeply. It is through loss that we often times recognize how important it it to live fully. Many years ago I lost my brother, Paul, in a tragic way. I was so unprepared for living my life without his guiding and loving presence. He had taught me so much about how to be in the world and so, for nearly a year, I felt as though I no longer wanted to be in a world in which he was so painfully absent. The most amazing truth, however, evolved within me as I regained my will to live. Eventually, I arrived at Paul's final lesson for me. The first part is life is too short to be spending time in an unhappy state of mind (and here, the words such as discontent, dissatisfied, angry, bitter, etc. can fill in the blank). The second part is that I am the only person who can "fix it." Yes, those surrounding me can provide love, support, guidance; ultimately, though, it is up to me to engage with and move through that which is difficult. And always, I have discovered, I am richer in mind and spirit for having embraced the conflict. Each September 18th, the anniversary of Paul's death, I move into a reflective frame of mind. Am I living with joy and intention? Do I appreciate the many blessings in my life? Do I challenge myself? Am I kind to others? The many questions on this special day remind me to make the necessay adjustments and to truly live fully. How fortunate we all are to be reminded of the richness of our lives by those who chose to move on before us.