Eulogy

This coming Saturday we've been invited to attend a candle light memorial service to honor beloved puppos and allow their people to remember them.  I was very, very touched when I was asked if we wanted Jersey to be included. It seems perfect to have Jersey's spirit remembered in this way.  To some degree it feels as if it is an opportunity to bring closure to the first half of the year that saw Jersey get sick and lose her fight against multi-centric subcutaneous canine lymphoma. I hope it will put a salve on the wound left in my heart when she was abruptly taken away.

A few years ago I had made contact with a girl I was friends with when I was in high school.  I haven't seen her in almost 35 years.  It turns out she has also experienced the loss of a cherished companion and surprised me when she asked us if we wanted to attend the annual ceremony she holds in her backyard.  She does agility training with her dogs and has raised a number of champion performers. I was pleased to learn of her passion and the love she has for her dogs. She is one of those who has allowed me to see that the shared experiences of the past keep us bound together in the present.  She is one of those who understand what we are experiencing

I hadn't planned on writing about our plans to attend the service because it's something I was feeling that I would keep private. I've since decide otherwise because for the first time, I am at a loss for words.  It's an opportunity to eulogize my Jersey and I feel speechless.  I don't know what to say and am at a loss for adequate words.

I have been very honest in this blog about what I've experienced during this grieving process. It has been valuable for me to have a forum in which I can release what I'm thinking, feeling, remembering about Jersey.  It's one thing to write about it.  It's another thing to speak about it.

I have the feeling that giving an actual voice to our experience will truly make it concrete and real. Sharing it with people who aren't physically present in front of me and are regular readers of this blog allows me some degree of freedom because I feel that I am addressing an invisible audience.  Though I know this blog is read regularly, actually speaking to folks about Jersey's beauty and spirit and being able to look them directly in the eye really lets me see that they are listening and hearing  me. Putting my thoughts in written form means I can take the words I want to express and massage them, change them or erase them as necessary. Once something is verbalized and spoken aloud it can't be taken back and is really out there for all time

I want my spoken words to be a fitting tribute for her.  People will actually hear what I am saying and will see me saying them. I think I prefer to be invisible so I can hide and people won't witness my grief in person.

As a consequence, I'm stuck for what to say.

It seems the only solution I have for this "stage fright" is to speak honestly and how her light and my love for her live on in my heart.

The eternal flame

The candle is still burning in the window of Jersey's Room.  I sort of half expected it would be out by now.  When I wrote about it the other day I thought it was on its last legs.  I really thought I would find a dark room the other night.  It is still coming on, albeit weakly but seems determined to keep burning until it can't burn anymore. It reminds me of Jersey's last day.

Though she was physically spent, her spirit was very much alive.  When I carried her into the backyard on that Tuesday afternoon, it was very obvious she enjoyed being outside.  The fresh air and sunshine seemed to bring her relief and a sense of contentment.  It almost appeared to revive her spirit. She lay on her blanket in the grass, her ears at attention, her nose twitching as she caught the different smells in the air.  She could hear Alexa and I talking to her; she could hear the sound of the birds.  She was aware and drinking in all that was going on around her.  I almost thought she was taking it all in so she could have a cherished memory of what her life was like to take along with her.

Her light refused to go out.  It burned until the last possible minute.

When the time came it was clear her light was ready to go out. She accepted it. I could not.  I didn't realize I was afraid of the dark, the dark from the coming absence of her bright, bright spirit and presence.

It is the same with the candle.

The battery lit flame is practically out of  power, yet it continues to shine.  The room continues to get darker and darker, yet it continues to shine. The dancing flame is dimmer and dimmer, yet it continues to shine.

One night, I will show up in the doorway and the candle will be out.  I will close the door and remember the flame, her light which burned brightly. This time though, I'm not as afraid. Her light still burns within me and illuminates my heart.

Training

Our Skylar just finished a round of puppy training. It was six weeks long and covered all the typical commands one would associate with a beginner class. She was taught how to walk nicely on a leash, sit, lie down, come, stay and leave it.  She did very well within the class; as a matter of fact she usually received weekly praise from the instructor who commented about how well behaved she is.  As is typical though, she was usually only well behaved in class.  Being home is another story.

For the most part she has learned what she is supposed to do.  Sometimes she walks calmly at the end of the leash.  It is a pleasure when she pleasantly keeps pace and isn't distracted by the bugs or blowing leaves or the landscape guys who may be on the other side of the street.  It sometimes takes an exasperated tug and a frustrated "SKYLAR" to get her back on track but eventually she falls into line.

She does know how to sit on command though Alexa and I have been utilizing different hand signals to get her to comply.  I figure we're probably confusing the dog since we're sending her mixed signals.  Alexa very calmly motions uses the motion the instructor suggested and mattter of factly tells her to sit.  Skylar sits.  I on the other hand am more forceful and do what I had done with Jersey.  I snap my fingers and point to the ceiling with one finger and strongly say "sit." Skylar will sit but she usually looks at me like I'm out of my mind.  I'll do it about 10 times, snapping harder and my voice raising in exasperation.  It seems that Skylar walks walks away from me more often than she sits. I'm sure she thinks that I'm an idiot and will give up as she turns away.

Jersey was the same way.  She didn't really take me seriously and knew I would let her get away with murder.  It took her a long, long time to decide to come when she was called.  Even then she would mosey back when she was done doing whatever she had been doing.  It would take numerous tugs on the leash and  repeated pleas of "easy" before she would slow down and stop pulling so hard.  About the only thing she did on a regular basis was to sit down as I would get her food and put the bowl down onto the floor.  She would wait patiently until I told her to go ahead, it was OK to eat.  Other than that, most everything else was on her own timetable.

Jersey went to training, too.  We actually took her to two different classes.  The first one she was so small, she could hide under the folding seats that were placed in a circle in the classroom.  She needed a lot of coaxing and reassurance to get her to emerge and demonstrate the skills she was shown.  In the next class, she was much bigger.  She couldn't fit under a chair anymore and wasn't sure what to make of the other pups in the class.  She would eventually comply with what she was asked to do often enough to receive a diploma, though her lessons never really took.

As much as I loved her, Jersey was stubborn.  She was smart enough to know that if she escaped from the backyard, I wouldn't be able to catch her unless she wanted to be caught.

My point is that as I remember trying to train Jersey, I'm seeing the same problems with Skylar.  I think I'm too much of a mush to be stern with a commanding presence.  I allow myself to be walked over, which is the one time she doesn't pull on the leash.

A dying candle

A couple of months ago I wrote about the candle I have in the window of Jersey's room and that I spend some time talking to her each night as I contemplate the flickering light.  It's one of those battery operated electric candles that actually has a timer and will flip on at the same time every evening and turn itself off sometime after midnight. It reflects in the window glass and casts a soft glow in the room.  It's comforting to me, being in that light.  It seems to dance around on the walls as it shimmers, winking and blinking, appearing to be blown about in a gentle breeze.

I finish my daily silent conversation telling her that her light shines in the darkness and out the window so anyone passing by can see how beautiful she was.  I also tell her I'll leave the light burning so she can always see where we are.

I noticed last night that the flame has gotten very, very weak.  It is nowhere near as bright as it first was when it was lit four months ago. It is getting dimmer and dimmer and is barely strong enough to shine.  I doubt it can even be seen from the street. The batteries are running low and will evenutally run out of juice while they work to keep the light burning.  I could replace the batteries or I could get a new candle.  I'm also thinking about just letting it extinguish.

I'm sort of wary of letting the room go dark and not having her flame burn. It will be almost a tangible sign that she is really gone and that it's time to move on.  I don't know if I'm ready to let her go.  On the other hand, I don't want to get stuck in a constant state of missing her and remain in an overwhelming sense of loss.  I tell myself that it's only been four months and that I have to allow myself to move through the grief process naturally and on its own pace.  Maybe the candle burning down to the point of not being lit anymore is now gently telling me it's time.  Time to begin to let go.

I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can.  Maybe I'll just get another candle and replace the one which is now dying. Or maybe, just maybe, I'll shut the door when the candle finally does go dark.  Jersey knows where we are and people can still see how beautiful she is.  This blog can show them, my stories can show them, our pictures can show them.  She's never going to be gone from my heart or far away from my thoughts.  Maybe it is time to let the candle go out.

Barking

There was something in the woods behind our house this morning that both Tellie and Skylar either heard or smelled.  When I let them out at 5:30 they barked and barked and barked and barked.  It pierced the early morning quiet and overpowered the birdsongs being tweeted by the Robins as they welcomed the day.  I'm sure the incessant barking woke the neighbors and were making them grumble "Damn, dogs. Why don't those people shut them up?"  I expected the police to show up at any moment and arrest us because the woofing dogs  had broken some sort of county sound ordinance which limited undue noise.

Skylar stood in the door way, frantically shouting "I know you're there and you know you're there now show your face and let me get a look at you!"  Tellie had come back into the house and was pawing at a window in the TV room.  She seemed to be telling Skylar "There are deer out there, there deer out there!"   I of course couldn't see anything untoward.  I didn't hear anything except the frantic barking. I couldn't smell anything which would have indicated the presence of some wayward animal forraging in the thick forest bordering the backyard.

I of course knew it's almost impossible to get the attention of a dog whose attention is focused on something important like a rabbit or deer or fox.  I tried to get them to quiet down but eventually gave up.  "Fine" I thought.  "Let the cops come and take me away.  At least it will be quieter in a jail cell."

As all this mayhem was happening, I was struck by a thought which gave me pause.  If Jersey was here, she'd be the ringleader of all this noise.  She'd be the one who would have squeeled in anticipation of seeing what was in the yard.  She would have been the one barking loudest.  It was then I realized I don't remember the sound of her bark.

I recall when she was first getting sick, something happened which caused her to unleash her roar over and over and over and over again.  I took joy in the sound of her cries.  I knew she was feeling the moment and was truly being a dog.  I swore to myself that I would remember the moment and remember the timber, the volume, the deepness of her voice.

Now, four months later, I struggled to recall what she sounded like.  I'm sure if I heard it, I would instantly recognize it.  But absent that, I can't hear it anymore.  I think I have forgotten.

It was the one thing I had hoped I would always have with me.  I was sure it was one of the memories I would always have and be able to cherish.  I was certain that memory would help keep her alive. Now all I hear is her silence.

It's a little unsettling to recognize I won't hear her again.  I'm discomforted to have a picture of her in mind but can't put a sound to it.  It's like watching a silent movie after being able to hear in hi-fi, stereophonic, glorious sound.

Now, the house is quiet.  Skylar and Tellie will continue to bark and keep providing the soundtrack of my life.  Unfortunately, the recording has changed.  Jersey's voice is missing.

Cleaning up

About two days after Jersey passed away, I asked Alexa to move the blankets and pillows we had put in the front room for Jersey to lay on so she could look out the windows left cracked open so she could smell all the smells on the breeze during her last days.  It was much too painful to walk past the living room and see the stuff piled up in the spot where she left us.

The blankets that had become soiled were thrown away; I think the pillows were put into a closet and the rug which had been on the floor in case she had to pee was rolled up and put into the basement. The room was empty, all traces of what had happened there were put away.  Of course there would always a heart skipping pang when I walk past the room but the reminders wouldn't be there.

We picked up her water and food bowls, put her collar and harness away and stored the various beds she would lie on in her favorite spots in the house. I gave away the long lead we used for her which kept her from leaping over the backyard fence so she wouldn't get loose and run away while she was chasing rabbits.

I didn't want to erase her from the house.  It was simply a matter of allowing us to resume life without daily, tangible reminders of the mighty space she occupied in my life.

This past weekend I took what was probably the final action in cleaning up.  I got my car washed and had the interior vacummed and polished.

Anyone who hauls a dog around knows what it is like to have fur balls the size of tumbleweeds blowing around the itnerior.  The dog owner can accept the dirt and sand and mud which builds up in the floor mats and carpets.  They get used to the smell of wet dogs.  The sounds of balls rolling around on the car floor become background noise.  They learn to live with nose prints, slobber and paw prints on the windows.  The dog smell permeates the interior and for me at least become a part of normal, everyday life.

The thing that caused me to consider getting the car cleaned up was Skylar having a pee accident on the blankets which I used to cover the back of the jeep.  We had taken a day trip to the ocean which is a couple of hours away from our house this past weekend.  Though I stopped during the drive so she and Tellie could have a bathroom break, Skylar waited until we were back in the car and continuing our drive before she considered emptying her blatter.  Puppy pee stinks and I had to take drastic action.  I decided to take my car to a full service car wash and detail place and have them try to de-dog the car's itnerior.

I mention all this because there were still vestiges of Jersey throught the car.  Sand from our trips to Sandy Point State Park was still on the back of the seats which I keep folded down to have more room for dogs to lie down;  a couple of sticks she had picked up were still under the seats, there were lots of stray hairs clinging to the fabric of the car ceiling and on the rugs.  They were all reminders of how much time we spent together driving to our next adventure; how she would be sprawled in the back, looking out the windows at the passing scenery trying to figure out where we might be going.

With each squirt of window cleaner, with each push of the vacuum hose, with each thing thrown into the garbage can, with each swirl of a wash rag her presence was wiped from the car.

The people who detailed the car did a great job.  It's now sparkly and shiny with a new car scent wafting through the interior.  Still, whenever I look in the rear view mirror to see how Tellie and Skylar are doing on one of our drives, I still see Jersey looking back at me asking "are we there yet?"

Though the car has been cleaned she's never really washed away.  She's in my heart and on my mind beyond the reach of cleaners and buckets of water.

Research and uncharted territory

Over this past weekend I spent some time trying to find a new place for us all to visit.  We can't go to Sandy Point State Park during the summer season.  No dogs are allowed from Memorial Day through October 1.  We tried to go to the Howard County Dog park a few weeks ago but they wouldn't let us in because Skylar was too young.  They didn't let dogs in who are under four moths old.  Besides, it's not our favorite place.  There is a $5 charge to get in and they've got volunteers guarding the gate.  They REALLY don't want people who don't pay or aren't members to gain entry.  On Saturday's we had been going to a High School athletic field for letting both Tellie and Skylar off-leash to get some running around time.  However, it's been way to hot for being outside.  There is no shade, no water and high humidity.  Not only is it miserable for the dogs, it kills me, too.

The only regularly visited park that's left is Quiet Waters Park in Annapolis.  It's a nice enough park and they've got a fenced in dog area.  Skylar has gotten nicely socialized with other pups while running around within the confined area and has rough and tumbled to her hearts content.  Tellie has also gotten into the action though she is more selective about the dogs she plays with.  Ultimately, she'd rather sit with us on the bench and take in all the in puppoy havoc.

All this led me to begin looking for new placse for us to go.  We've been visiting the same places time and time again during the last two years and are in need of a change.

I realized yesterday that in the past when Jersey was with us, I spent a lot of time trying to find places that she would like.  I searched for parks with water access, hiking trails, off leash areas or open fields.  Jersey loved to ride in the car and visit new places.  She got a kick out of new experiences and exploring.  She loved taking hikes, she loved splashing in rivers, she loved playing in water, she liked running free.

Yesterday, I was struck by another thought.  Neither Tellie nor Skylar are much interested in stuff like that.  Tellie would rather take a walk and Skylar is happy doing whatever Tellie is doing.  Sure they enjoy riding in the car but they don't really care about new places.  The important thing for them is that our whole pack is together.  They are totally happy just spending time with us. I don't trust either of them to be off-leash while exploring a forest and they don't care for water.  At least Tellie doesn't, I'm not sure about Skylar yet.

Though I'm still going to look for uncharted territory, my focus has changed and it makes me a little sad.

I loved taking Jersey to all the exciting places we used to go.  It was a great outlet for both of us and was also a great way to get some regular exercise.  Now, the thought of going to the Sandy Point Beach without Jersey is too much for me to think about yet.  I'm sort of thankful there is dog access during the summer season. 

It's different now, Tellie and Skylar will do whatever we do. Jersey would, too.  The difference is Jersey had joy in being adventureous; she was up for anything.  The dogs now are a little more cautious and aren't as curious about what is at the top of the next hill or the next pool around the bend in the river.

Not only was it exciting for Jersey, I loved taking Jersey to these places.  it was exciting for me too and I miss those times of exploring with her.

I love Tellie and Skylar.  Life is just different.  The new normal is setting in.