Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (42 page)

doctor asked if we were ready. Whatever
doubts we had about our decision vanished with Mac's
last message to us. As the needle approached his
leg, Mac turned his head to look at it, his eyes
calm and unworried, watching as it found his vein.
He was ready. He laid his head in John's hand
and fell asleep for the last time.
Macintosh died as he had lived, without fear, taking
each moment as it came, and welcoming death as the
release of his spirit. Animals offer important
lessons on being in the moment, even when it is the
last. Our fearfulness about death and the process of
dying, though understandable, may be unnecessary. Taoist
philosopher Chuang-tzu asked, "How do I know
that love of life is not a delusion after all? How
do I know but that he who dreads death is not as a child
who has lost his way and does not know his way
home?"
No regrets
I cannot say how McKinley died-I was not there and so
do not know if he welcomed death or fought against it.
When I found his body lying at the back door, there
was no fear on his face, only a surprised
look, as if death had caught him unaware. For a
blessed, fleeting moment, I thought he was simply
sprawled out on his side as he often was after a
good romp in the yard. But that moment was only a
heartbeat, and then I knew, even as I stepped
toward him, long before I touched him. McKinley had
found the way home. Grief mixed with relief. This
was the moment I had dreaded, the moment I had
anticipated with so many tears. The grieving had
begun a long time ago, in a veterinarian's
office, with a puppy in my arms. The waiting was
over; now, at least for a while, I could push death's
hovering presence away from me again.
There was also elation, difficult to explain. Stroking
his head, calling his name, I realized that I had met
this moment as I hoped I might. I had learned that
no matter how much you love something, it is
impossible to hold it so tightly that death cannot slip
it from your grasp. But you can hold on so tightly that
life cannot get through. I had held McKinley as
lightly as I knew how, trying hard not to wait
fearfully for the moment that he was gone but with gratitude
for each moment that he was here. I had no regrets,
no apologies to make, no actions or words that I
would change or take back. Guided by McKinley

himself, I had kept my promise and given
him a full life. He was not quite eight months
old. Had he lived longer, perhaps I would have failed
him. Time is both a blessing and a curse to any
relationship-time to get it right, time to get it wrong.
But somehow, I had succeeded. He taught me, more
than any other animal or person I had known
thus far, that to live fully is to let go of fear.
Even in death, McKinley continued to teach me. A
few days after he died, I was emotionally drained,
trying to adjust to the immense emptiness his absence
created in our lives. Work demands seemed
relentless, and I was feeling increasingly angry.
My dogs tiptoed away from me; my husband tried
to appease my inarticulate wrath. Although I could
see how stupidly I was behaving, I was unwilling
to stop myself. Frustrated and trapped by my feelings,
I decided to surrender the day and go to bed, hoping that
sleep would ease me to a better place. Still
wrapped in anger, I lay beside John, listening
to his breathing as he relaxed into sleep. Seeking
some outlet for the emotions working in me, I began
to think about McKinley, and the tears-never far from the
surface in those raw days-came quickly. Though
nearly asleep, John sensed my misery and reached
for me, meaning to hold and comfort me. I
jerked away from him, only to find myself even more
wretched when he did not repeat

the attempt but fell captive to sleep's pull.
This was fuel for my self- pity bonfire, and I
fanned the flames with vivid images of
McKinley's dead body.
Miserably reviewing McKinley's death, I
felt his presence, and saw and heard him in my mind
as clearly as ever. "Do you have any regrets?" he
asked, referring to my relationship with him. My
answer, mercifully, was that I did not. Then the
image of his body transformed into a scene of John
leaving abruptly in the night, which as a volunteer
firefighter, he often did. In this movie, I could
see myself asleep, only vaguely aware that
John was gone.
McKinley spoke again. "What if John left
right now and never came back? Would you have regrets?"
It was a terrible thought that John should leave on a
fire call but not return, never hear me
apologize for my selfishness, never hear me say
again that I love him. "There does not need to be

regret. If you would wish for a chance to do
differently what you have done, if you would regret what
you have left undone, make it right. Now. Now may
be the only time you have."
I saw McKinley's face, his eyes steady and
wise, and felt the peace I had known when I
realized that at least with him, I had no regrets.
Despite the hour, I woke my sleeping husband,
told him that I loved him, that I had been a
fool. As forgiving as a dog, he folded me
into his arms, and with no regrets, we fell
asleep.
the fragile circle
Mine is not an elevated existence lived in a
state of constant, deep appreciation and awareness.
Like anyone else, I find myself annoyed by dogs
underfoot, by puddles on the floor, by papers cleared
from tables by wagging tails. I sometimes forget to be
thankful for the warm animal bodies that curl next
to me in bed, and instead complain about a lack of
blankets to call my own. I pull dog hair from
our food and long ago surrendered to the
impossibility of keeping home and self
spotlessly clean against an endless onslaught of
muddy paws and sloppy wet kisses. I daydream
occasionally of an animal-free life where
my time, energy and resources are squandered on me and
me alone. But the lesson of
McKinley has spilled over, far beyond the
immediacy of his life and his death. Now, when my
dogs offer a kiss or invite me to play, I am
less quick to push them away if I am feeling
pressured or busy. I know that when they are gone,
I would happily trade every moment spent complaining
for a chance to give them another hug or to stroke their
heads once more. I try to accept their gifts of the
moment, reminding myself that I am a poor person
indeed if I can't spend time accepting the
unconditional love offered so often every day by my
dogs. On my left shoulder, death sits
quietly, not a horrific figure but a source of
wisdom on loving and living.
There is a cycle of love and death that shapes the
lives of those who choose to travel in the company of
animals. It is a cycle unlike any other.
To those who have never lived through its turnings or walked
its rocky path, our willingness to give our hearts
with full knowledge that they will be broken seems
incomprehensible. Only we know how small a

price we pay for what we receive; our
grief, no matter how powerful it may be, is an
insufficient measure of the joy we have been given.
Writing in his essay, "The Once Again Prince,"
animal lover and gifted writer Irving Townsend
summed it up:
We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more
temporary than our own live within a fragile
circle easily and often breached. Unable to accept
its awful gaps, we still would live no other way.
We cherish memory as the only certain
immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan.
It is a fragile circle. But it goes round and
round without end.

cold noses, No wings
Soul is
most pregnant and ready to be born in
relationships, since we can't be
human without them. We cannot save our soul, much
less find it, alone.
gary zukav,
seat of the soul
To include Six DOGS IN A wedding is
to invite Loki, the Norse god of mischief,
to attend and bring a date. Even with
Loki's giggles in our ears, we designed a
wedding ceremony that included our most beloved human
friends and also our animal ones-dogs, horses and
even our donkey. Friends took the dogs on leash as
part of the entire procession of guests as all made
their way out into the pasture, where John and I would
follow on horseback later. Along with all our
much-loved guests, the excited dogs stood near the
back of the group, waiting for the moment in the ceremony
when one by one we would call them to us. Each dog
exemplified and brought to us qualities and characteristics
we wanted to include in our marriage, and before
calling out each dog's name, we announced to all the
gifts and lessons each dog brought us as they
eagerly galloped to join us. In calling Molson
to us, we asked for gentleness, maturity and
determination. Bannockburn brought us power tempered
with kindness, and wisdom. Vali brought us
gracefulness, intensity, faithfulness. Carson-only
a few days away from delivering the litter that brought
us McKinley-offered us nurturing, watchfulness and
fierceness. Chilkat carried with him beauty,
nobility and courage. And Otter gave us
laughter, joy and playfulness.

In calling our dogs to us and naming their
gifts and lessons, we acknowledged what they
helped create in our lives and honored their role
in our lives as teachers. We could have just as easily
called out each
friend's name and told of the blessings and lessons they had
brought to our lives. All relationships, no matter
how brief, no matter whom they may be with, are
opportunities for learning. The lessons we need
to learn and the messages that we need to hear in order
to heal and grow are all around us in the natural world,
in the people that fill our lives, and in the animals in
our lives. The very moment we open ourselves to hearing and
seeing the possibilities at work in our lives,
even our ugliest or unhappiest moments can teach us
about ourselves and our interconnectedness with all others.
In every friend's weakness, I may see a cautionary
note for my own life, or recognize the blessing of
being a bit stronger where my friend may falter. In every
friend's strengths, I may see the power of gifts
used with love and integrity, or realize that my own
weaknesses need to be acknowledged and dealt with. Without
the contrast between myself and others, I might all too
easily forget that there are as many paths through life as
there are feet to walk them, and that mine is not
the only way to travel. Just as lessons about
cooperation and industrious effort can be understood in
simply lying on your belly and watching ants for an
hour or so, our dogs offer us lessons if we are
willing to open our hearts to hear them.
To ask "What can I learn from you?" acknowledges that
all of us- including animals-serve at one time or
another as teachers for each other. This humble question
reminds us that we are, all of us, students of
life; learning and growth are not phases we pass
through on our way to adulthood, but constant
companions in our daily life. When we are
willing to ask this most fundamental of questions, something
profound shifts inside us, creating an awareness that
wherever we look, there are teachers bearing truths great
and small for our lives.
Physicist John Archibald Wheeler noted,
"The observer's choice of what he shall look for has
an inescapable consequence for what he will find." Here
we come full circle back to the responsibility
of choice that is the very heart of every relationship. We
can choose to move toward greater intimacy or away
from it, to act out of love or out of fear, to bring our
attention and energy to a moment or to live

unconsciously. Far beyond our relationships
with our dogs, even at the level of electrons and
quarks, what we think and how we choose to observe
our world, how we shape our expectations-all help
to create our reality.
cold noses, No wings

The mind is a powerful thing but, like all power, may not
be used wisely. Years ago, while traveling in
Germany, I had an amusing but unforgettable lesson
in how our assumptions can lead us to block the information
that is available to us. Watching television, I
struggled for a while to make sense of the German dubbing
over a familiar American show, but it made me quite
queasy to watch lips move with no relation to the words
my ears were hearing-if there's an auditory form of
motion sickness, this is how it is triggered. Giving
up my attempts to understand what was being said, I
settled into simply watching the program as if it were
a silent movie, using this opportunity to focus
on the subtleties of facial expression and
gesture, which told a surprisingly amount of the
tale. An hour or so later, having
halfheartedly watched several programs
broadcast in German, I realized that some of what
was being said was making sense to me, the foreign
sounds of German resolving themselves in my mind so that
with each passing moment, I could understand more and more of the
words. This was astonishing. Elated with my newfound
comprehension, I was about to announce this development
to my hostess when a commercial came on. In
German. And not one word made any sense to me.
When the television show continued, I realized to my
chagrin that it was not dubbed in German but broadcast in
the original English.
How had I missed this? I was so sure that the
television shows were in German that even when a new
show began in English, my brain refused to accept
what my ears were receiving-the familiar sounds of my
native language. The filter of assumption is
so powerful that though I was physically learning
English, I could perceive nothing but what I assumed
I was hearing: German. Assumptions about dogs
may lead us to block what the dogs have to tell us,
even when the message is clear and unmistakable.
We may assume that animals have nothing of value
to say, or even if we do accept that there are
messages being sent, we believe that we are
incapable of understanding them, reserving that for exceptionally
gifted horse whisperers and Dr. Doolittle