For the love of dog

here we go again

Apr 17, 2023

I have kept company with the most extraordinary creatures for the last dozen years. Olive and Abby. My gentle giants.

These two girls saw me through the most trying period of my life and shepherded me to the other side. When I said goodbye to Abby in October, I told Olive she needed to “hold it together” for six months, and she kept her end of the promise almost to the day.

I should have asked for a year.

As I wrote last week, Olive was recently diagnosed with laryngeal paralysis, making the act of breathing more and more labored. I wanted to believe we would have more time together, but she suffered an even more brutal episode on Thursday evening, and as I lay on the floor, feeding her ice cubes, listening to the whimper beneath each gasp, I knew I had to let her go.

We try to preserve life—even when we know it has no chance of enduring its body. We feed it, keep it comfortable, bathe it, medicate it, caress it, even sing to it. We tend to these basic functions not because we are brave or selfless but because, like breath, it is the most fundamental act of our species: to sustain the body until time leaves it behind.

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Ocean Vuong

Someone told me dogs come into your life for a purpose, leaving only when they know they have done their job. Olive and Abby did their job. The pair loved one another like sisters, and I take great comfort knowing they are together again.

If you ever met Olive, you know what I mean when I say she was unforgettable, and if a picture paints a thousand words, this one pretty much sums her up.

Oh Olive, you certainly lived in your own world.

The root of euthanasia and eulogy may be the same, but at this moment, there feels nothing good about either, and I’m sick and tired of writing eulogies.

So here are a few of my favorite things about Olive:

The way you slept in the rain (or snow) for hours until your fur began to felt
Or how you sat on my chest, suffocating me in savasana
The way you licked each plate in the dishwasher clean, loudly but meticulously
The way you locked yourself in the bathroom over and over (and over) again
Or head-butted the pantry doors, helping yourself to whatever you wanted: chocolate chips, Grape Nuts, yeast. Always undeterred by packaging.
You never understood you weren’t a lap dog, did you? Especially on the couch when you knew where you wanted to sit, regardless of who was sitting there first
You were never the alpha, and I certainly wouldn’t call you stealth, for we could always hear you coming, but you were forever my majestic supermodel in your own dopey way
And always, always to be with you meant being surrounded by snores

Olive never left me; instead, I was the one who had to let go of everything. First, a glass of wine, then a marriage. She only slept with me once, on January 25, 2017. The night before I signed my divorce papers.

I could hear her coming before she even entered the bedroom: the heft of feet slowly climbing the stairs, followed by the heavy "huh huh huh" of her breath. Olive put one paw, then the other, onto the bed and heaved herself up, circling and circling until she made herself comfortable next to me, releasing an audible sigh. Then, she began to snore. Loudly. It was actually kind of awful, and I was relieved when invariably she got too hot and descended to the floor, but I will never forget the gesture because she knew. Olive knew I could not be alone.

Until I was ready.

It’s hard to describe the weight of this weekend, for Olive wasn’t my only devastating loss. Saturday afternoon, I learned of the passing of another dear, dear friend who lost his battle with pancreatic cancer far too soon. These past mornings I’ve been taking Gertie up to Cobbs Hill Reservoir. The two of us walk in circles as I try to make sense of it all. Looking into her eyes, I am reminded to say thank you for all that has been and yes to all that is yet to come. Acceptance and Gratitude.

I like to think Dave and Olive are walking together, too, because he always loved dogs, and Olive was most certainly a dog.

Indeed, she was the dog of my life.

thanks for reading ~

once you’ve slept on an island you’ll never be the same… . ..

When Women Were Birds: murmuration, memoir, meditation

September 22 - 26, 2023

Monhegan, ME

This retreat is an invitation and an embodied book group: journeying and journaling through the words of Terry Tempest Williams's poetic memoir When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice with the many seasons of the sea. It is for anyone who longs to learn or return to the practices of writing and meditation to discover our stories through silence and speech.

a few spaces remain!

learn more

all the details • 2022 retreat highlights here

I felt like the bright, salty sunshine and air of Monhegan scrubbed the corners of my soul, and I saw all the cracks and creases and also cleaned the gunk that needed to be moved. It was a deeply satisfying and nourishing experience. I feel like my personal bucket as a woman, mom, midwife, and human became filled to the brim with trust that we can have hard times and find meaningful ways to re-visit reintegrate into ourselves when the opportunity presents itself ~ Elsa, Philadelphia, PA, 2021 + 2022 retreater

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