I heard an odd scraping noise behnd me. I was out for a walk with Paul and the dogs, Paul and Jody bounding ahead, Blackie and I dragging our asses along. It was cold. I was examing the pattern of white ice in the cracks of black asphalt-- lace--when I heard the scraping sound.
I turned to look. It was my neighbor, a gentleman of seventy or so, old enough to have that transparent look people get when they are preparing for fade out. He was pulling a sled.
My first thought was "Oh, no. He'll put himself in the hospital." But he looked so happy, pulling his sled up the hill.
Turns out the sled is old, a Fearless Flyer, circa back in the day. He had bought it for his kids and as he pulled it along it bore all the memories of playing in the snow years ago. More than that: my neighbor went to school with the offspring of the man who first designed and marketed American Flyers, so the sled carried those memories as well.
He was going to pull that sled up the hill and slide back down and make another memory.
I thought about his sled as we walked away. If I was one of his kids I would treasure that sled. I would hang it on the wall like an icon.
Would throwing the sled away be throwing the memories away? Is it grasping to hang on to objects that hold memories? If so, then I am a very grapsing person because I keep all kinds of stuff for the memories: scrapbooks, albums, over twenty diaries, my display case of sacred objects...When I die my heirs will have a hell of a mess to clean up. What will Emily and Kate do with all my memories?
I hope they don't feel burdened by them. It will be OK if it all goes in the trash.
There's a quote to the effect that an unexamined life is not worth living. Ann Landers says that an unlived life is not worth examinng. My diaries are remarkably vacous but the other stuff is all related to living my life and I keep all that stuff as part of examing it. I want to hang on to memories until I have no need of them. I am fortunate in that the memories I need are of people I loved, animals I loved, or times when I was happy. I need those memories because they are who I am.
Is that grasping?
Probably but it is a happy burden.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Other Side of the Island
I went out to drop off a box for a lady who lives just a mile and a whole reality away.
She lives in a plywood shack that she built herself forty years ago. There is no running water, no bathroom, no power. She catches rainwater and and uses a battery to run the TV.
She had three tied up dogs, two loose adult dogs, and three half starved puppies on her property. All of them were dirty.
She's pretty skinny and dirty herself.
On the way to AAP there is a McMansion with a small fenced area in the backyard. There two lonely dogs sleep their lives away, cold and wet most of the time, lonely always, while their family is safe and warm and comfortable inside their house. That family that got those dogs as pups and lost interest in them long ago. Fuck those kind of people!
This old lady doesn't live much better than her dogs do and she spends time outside giving them pats on the head. And the dogs all flock around her. They clearly love her as much as she loves them.
And, unlike the McMansion assholes, the lady recognizes tht she needs help to give her dogs the lives they deserve.
I asked if she needed help getting homes for the pups and she said yes. I listened as she proudly showed me her property, her garden, her house. I tried not to be appalled by the filthy water the dogs had to drink or the inadequate jerryrigged dog houses. In the end she offered me two of the adult dogs and will let me get the remaining female spayed. I am going to approach her about getting dog houses for the dogs she is keeping as the winter is expected to be rough this year.
I drove away with two of the puppies and a few days later I got the third puppy and a pregnant mom. She cried while I drove away.
She did the right thing for her dogs because she loves them, unlike those well off people who think they have done enough by putting up a fence and buying dog food regularly.
I am honored that she entrusting her dogs to me.
She lives in a plywood shack that she built herself forty years ago. There is no running water, no bathroom, no power. She catches rainwater and and uses a battery to run the TV.
She had three tied up dogs, two loose adult dogs, and three half starved puppies on her property. All of them were dirty.
She's pretty skinny and dirty herself.
On the way to AAP there is a McMansion with a small fenced area in the backyard. There two lonely dogs sleep their lives away, cold and wet most of the time, lonely always, while their family is safe and warm and comfortable inside their house. That family that got those dogs as pups and lost interest in them long ago. Fuck those kind of people!
This old lady doesn't live much better than her dogs do and she spends time outside giving them pats on the head. And the dogs all flock around her. They clearly love her as much as she loves them.
And, unlike the McMansion assholes, the lady recognizes tht she needs help to give her dogs the lives they deserve.
I asked if she needed help getting homes for the pups and she said yes. I listened as she proudly showed me her property, her garden, her house. I tried not to be appalled by the filthy water the dogs had to drink or the inadequate jerryrigged dog houses. In the end she offered me two of the adult dogs and will let me get the remaining female spayed. I am going to approach her about getting dog houses for the dogs she is keeping as the winter is expected to be rough this year.
I drove away with two of the puppies and a few days later I got the third puppy and a pregnant mom. She cried while I drove away.
She did the right thing for her dogs because she loves them, unlike those well off people who think they have done enough by putting up a fence and buying dog food regularly.
I am honored that she entrusting her dogs to me.
Thinking Like Dog
Paul and I went up to the Methow Valley for a vacation. That's how spoiled we are: we take vacations from living in the forest on an island near a beach. I take vacation from an easy twentyfive hour a week job and he takes vacation from being retired.
It's so easy to take everything for granted. I have a real problem with spending way too much brain time bitching about stuff I want to change . I spent the whole of our vacation trying to stop thinking about local politics, boring, boring, annnoying, but stuck in my head like an earworm.
Jody, on the other hand, loved the hell out of our vacation.
Jody has the gift for enjoying herself. She is very much into sensual experiences. For her the chance to bound through fields of dry grass was an intense pleasure. The chance to smell something new, jump in an unfamiliar body of water, hike up a new trail...she doesn't have to work at being in the moment!
I do. I have to work at paying attention to what is outside my head. I was most successful on the hike around the big hill down near town.
We set out in the early evening when the overcast sky was paling into a light lavender. The trail was steep enough to make me pant, sort of like climbing endless stairs, and as I trudged along I watched the slow change in the immediate scenery. It was a festival of fall color; the dried grasses in every shade of dun, tan, gold, pale yellow, the shrubs turning to rust and orange, the cheerful groves of aspen still fluttering silver and lime green leaves. I particlulary like aspen since I read somewhere that they propigate by root and that most of the plants are the females, thus making each aspen grove a coterie of sisters. Probably a lot of crap but don't correct me: I like to think of them that way!
Anyway I huffed and puffed up the mountain past the aspen sisters, through a grove of dark stately pines, to the dull gold flanks of the peak. Lots of birds but none that I could identify. Finally arrived panting at the top.
Lovely view, magical in the evening light. The Methow Valley is gentle and almost homely, an accessible, quiet beauty: little farms tucked into comfortably rounded hills, a glimpse of the river.
The sort of landscape that could be made into a quilt.
The trip down was just as much of a sensory experience--visually sensual, since I don't have Jody's nose or ears--and I was tired and happy when I got back to the car.
I remember that trip in detail because I paid attention. I wonder if Jody can remember her happy bounces through the long grass?
It's so easy to take everything for granted. I have a real problem with spending way too much brain time bitching about stuff I want to change . I spent the whole of our vacation trying to stop thinking about local politics, boring, boring, annnoying, but stuck in my head like an earworm.
Jody, on the other hand, loved the hell out of our vacation.
Jody has the gift for enjoying herself. She is very much into sensual experiences. For her the chance to bound through fields of dry grass was an intense pleasure. The chance to smell something new, jump in an unfamiliar body of water, hike up a new trail...she doesn't have to work at being in the moment!
I do. I have to work at paying attention to what is outside my head. I was most successful on the hike around the big hill down near town.
We set out in the early evening when the overcast sky was paling into a light lavender. The trail was steep enough to make me pant, sort of like climbing endless stairs, and as I trudged along I watched the slow change in the immediate scenery. It was a festival of fall color; the dried grasses in every shade of dun, tan, gold, pale yellow, the shrubs turning to rust and orange, the cheerful groves of aspen still fluttering silver and lime green leaves. I particlulary like aspen since I read somewhere that they propigate by root and that most of the plants are the females, thus making each aspen grove a coterie of sisters. Probably a lot of crap but don't correct me: I like to think of them that way!
Anyway I huffed and puffed up the mountain past the aspen sisters, through a grove of dark stately pines, to the dull gold flanks of the peak. Lots of birds but none that I could identify. Finally arrived panting at the top.
Lovely view, magical in the evening light. The Methow Valley is gentle and almost homely, an accessible, quiet beauty: little farms tucked into comfortably rounded hills, a glimpse of the river.
The sort of landscape that could be made into a quilt.
The trip down was just as much of a sensory experience--visually sensual, since I don't have Jody's nose or ears--and I was tired and happy when I got back to the car.
I remember that trip in detail because I paid attention. I wonder if Jody can remember her happy bounces through the long grass?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Cure for a Shitty Mood
Been in a shitty mood all day.
No particular reason.
No, that's a lie. I'm mad about something someone said and I have had no opportuinty to express my feelings to the individual so I have been spending a lot of time muttering to myself instead. Hence, shitty mood. Kept it up most of the day.
This was my day: went to work, just two hours today, went to the dog rescue and walked three dogs, went to the grocery, went home and fell into a hole of depression. I couldn't settle my mind, couldn't focus on anyting constructive.
Part of the problem was the the presence of a stray dog on our deck.
She followed Paul and Jody home. Just your basic black lab, a friendly, sweet natured middle aged female dog who looks like she's had too many litters. She appears well fed but has an extensive skin rash of some sort. She curled up aagsint the door and lay there for hours.
We called our security person, Jan. Jan knows all the dogs in the neighborhood and thought she knew the lab from our description. She said she'd come by and take the lab home. It took her about four hours to show up and I had pissy thoughts about that which were unfair to Jan because she was busy. Apparently the Trench War that the PUD is waging against us homeowners has caused some people to have pink water from their taps. Anyway she finally got over to check on the pooch and, as it turns out, did not recognize her.
Dilemna. Serious problem. Paul and I are leaving on vacation tomorrow. Jan is off duty for the next two days. The kennel master from the dog rescue is about to leave on a vacation for two weeks. What were we going to do about this dog who lay curled up at our feet on our deck, hopefully wagging her tail? Poor baby, I told her, your timing is bad. I was afraid we'd have to just drive off tomorrow and leave her to fend for herself.
But I went in and got my dog rescue phone list and started phoning people. It turned out that our kennelmaster had not left yet. She gave permission for me to bring the dog into the rescue that evening. I was so releaved I almost started crying.
I opened the car door and she jumped right in. She settled down with her head in my lap. While I drove I thought about names for her. I had been calling her Sweetie Pie because she is, but that name seemed unnecesarily sacharine. I thought of pretty names: Elizabeth, Antonia, Veronica, names that would compensate for her rather boring basic black dog appearance. Then I thought of Lady Jane, a name that is pretty and relfects her gentle, polite demeanor. So that's it. "Your name is Lady Jane" I told her. "Janey, for short".
She's down at the rescue now, hopefully curled up in bed, sleeping. Tomorrow she will go to the vet and be spayed and start treatment for her skin condition. Hopefully she will go home with a loving family soon.
And I haven't had a shitty thought all evening. The Dalai Lama says that the antidote for anger is compassion. He meant compassion toward the source of anger but compassion for some other living being seems to work as well.
Thank you Lady Jane for coming to us for help.
No particular reason.
No, that's a lie. I'm mad about something someone said and I have had no opportuinty to express my feelings to the individual so I have been spending a lot of time muttering to myself instead. Hence, shitty mood. Kept it up most of the day.
This was my day: went to work, just two hours today, went to the dog rescue and walked three dogs, went to the grocery, went home and fell into a hole of depression. I couldn't settle my mind, couldn't focus on anyting constructive.
Part of the problem was the the presence of a stray dog on our deck.
She followed Paul and Jody home. Just your basic black lab, a friendly, sweet natured middle aged female dog who looks like she's had too many litters. She appears well fed but has an extensive skin rash of some sort. She curled up aagsint the door and lay there for hours.
We called our security person, Jan. Jan knows all the dogs in the neighborhood and thought she knew the lab from our description. She said she'd come by and take the lab home. It took her about four hours to show up and I had pissy thoughts about that which were unfair to Jan because she was busy. Apparently the Trench War that the PUD is waging against us homeowners has caused some people to have pink water from their taps. Anyway she finally got over to check on the pooch and, as it turns out, did not recognize her.
Dilemna. Serious problem. Paul and I are leaving on vacation tomorrow. Jan is off duty for the next two days. The kennel master from the dog rescue is about to leave on a vacation for two weeks. What were we going to do about this dog who lay curled up at our feet on our deck, hopefully wagging her tail? Poor baby, I told her, your timing is bad. I was afraid we'd have to just drive off tomorrow and leave her to fend for herself.
But I went in and got my dog rescue phone list and started phoning people. It turned out that our kennelmaster had not left yet. She gave permission for me to bring the dog into the rescue that evening. I was so releaved I almost started crying.
I opened the car door and she jumped right in. She settled down with her head in my lap. While I drove I thought about names for her. I had been calling her Sweetie Pie because she is, but that name seemed unnecesarily sacharine. I thought of pretty names: Elizabeth, Antonia, Veronica, names that would compensate for her rather boring basic black dog appearance. Then I thought of Lady Jane, a name that is pretty and relfects her gentle, polite demeanor. So that's it. "Your name is Lady Jane" I told her. "Janey, for short".
She's down at the rescue now, hopefully curled up in bed, sleeping. Tomorrow she will go to the vet and be spayed and start treatment for her skin condition. Hopefully she will go home with a loving family soon.
And I haven't had a shitty thought all evening. The Dalai Lama says that the antidote for anger is compassion. He meant compassion toward the source of anger but compassion for some other living being seems to work as well.
Thank you Lady Jane for coming to us for help.
Friday, September 10, 2010
What would Buddha Do?
I promised Lassie's memory that I would meditate every day, but I really suck at meditating. Last night all I managed to do was change from thinking angry thoughts to thinking boring ones. That's an improvement, of course, since Buddhist practice is about ninety percent a matter of taking responsiblity for and controlling one's thoughts and boring thoughts are better than angry ones. But it isn't meditating.
I spend far too much time being angry.
I worry about that. When Momma got demented the dementia pared her mind down to the essence and the essence was her love for me and Daddy. When she couldn't say anything else she could still say "I am so proud of you". There was little memory, very few words, little control over her body, very little cognition, but she could still feel love.
If I get demented will I be bitchy and argumentative?
So I do need to cut back on the incessant anger. It's a crappy habit. I don't really know why I do it. Control? Trying to make the world outside my head conform to my expectations? Egotism, just the love of ths sound of my own voice scoring points and making arguments? Drama?
The thing is I never express anger in real life. Or very very rarely. The day I yelled at Bill for not giving his dog water was a rare exception. And I was not abusive toward him. I didn't really yell either. I did tell him off . I told him that it was his job to care for his dog and that no matter how much he read the Bible he wasn't a Christian if he didn't care for his dog with a willing heart. He tried to yell at me but I would not back down like his wife and mother do so he just slammed out of the room and went somewhere to sulk. Buddha says that Joe has something honorable and holy in him, but I think he needs a couple reincarnation cycles as a cockroach first. As the British say, he might be good at bottom, but its a long way down.
But back to me and my angry dialogs. I really need a replacement activity. I have "monkey brain". I am an active thinker, an incessant producer of narratives. I used to tell myself stories and that kept my brain occupied. Now that I am actually almost done with an actual novel I don't tell myself stories any more. So I have a lot of brain energy that wants to be organized into thoughts about something. Otherwise I get bored.
I wonder why just an awareness of real life isn't interesting enough? I used to love long distance driving because I was so facinated by the passing landscape. Now I hardly look at it even though I live in a lovely area.
Life is passing by and I spend it thinking stupid angry boring thoughts and I don't know why.
I spend far too much time being angry.
I worry about that. When Momma got demented the dementia pared her mind down to the essence and the essence was her love for me and Daddy. When she couldn't say anything else she could still say "I am so proud of you". There was little memory, very few words, little control over her body, very little cognition, but she could still feel love.
If I get demented will I be bitchy and argumentative?
So I do need to cut back on the incessant anger. It's a crappy habit. I don't really know why I do it. Control? Trying to make the world outside my head conform to my expectations? Egotism, just the love of ths sound of my own voice scoring points and making arguments? Drama?
The thing is I never express anger in real life. Or very very rarely. The day I yelled at Bill for not giving his dog water was a rare exception. And I was not abusive toward him. I didn't really yell either. I did tell him off . I told him that it was his job to care for his dog and that no matter how much he read the Bible he wasn't a Christian if he didn't care for his dog with a willing heart. He tried to yell at me but I would not back down like his wife and mother do so he just slammed out of the room and went somewhere to sulk. Buddha says that Joe has something honorable and holy in him, but I think he needs a couple reincarnation cycles as a cockroach first. As the British say, he might be good at bottom, but its a long way down.
But back to me and my angry dialogs. I really need a replacement activity. I have "monkey brain". I am an active thinker, an incessant producer of narratives. I used to tell myself stories and that kept my brain occupied. Now that I am actually almost done with an actual novel I don't tell myself stories any more. So I have a lot of brain energy that wants to be organized into thoughts about something. Otherwise I get bored.
I wonder why just an awareness of real life isn't interesting enough? I used to love long distance driving because I was so facinated by the passing landscape. Now I hardly look at it even though I live in a lovely area.
Life is passing by and I spend it thinking stupid angry boring thoughts and I don't know why.
Monday, September 6, 2010
A Puppy’s Bill of Rights
1. I have a right to be adopted by someone who wants a dog. I will only be a puppy for a few months. Will you still love me when I am no longer a cute little baby?
2. I have a right to be adopted by you, not your children. Your children will not walk me, feed me, or groom me. They are quite likely to lose interest in me as soon as the novelty of my presence in your house wears off. They will grow up and move away and I will be left behind with you. If you don’t want me for yourself, please don’t adopt me.
3. I have a right to your patience and understanding. I will poop and pee in your house, terrorize the cat, chew on the children, the furniture, and you, jump on everyone and everything, raid the trash, and destroy your favorite pair of shoes. If you are not prepared for this, please adopt a grownup dog that already knows how to behave.
4. I have a right to successful training.
5. I have a right not to be the victim of your inability to train me. You have no right to condemn me to life in the back yard or crate me for hours on end because I misbehave. I am a baby dog; you are a human, supposedly an intelligent creature created in the image of God. If I don’t learn, it’s because you didn’t teach me right.
6. I have the right to be spayed or neutered. I am homeless now as a result of irresponsible breeding. Don’t make me make more homeless puppies.
7. I have a right to exercise. I need to be walked every day or have playtime in the yard. I should not spend more time in a crate than out of it. See right number three.
8. I have a right to your love and attention every day whether you are in the mood or not, regardless of how tired or stressed or busy you are. I never said that caring for me would be easy. Besides, no matter how tired, busy or stressed I am, I will always have time to show my love for you.
9. I have a right to be in the house with you when you are home. I am a member of your family. You don’t keep the children on a chain in the backyard or locked up in a crate or kennel, do you?
10. I have a right to be kept clean and healthy. Before you adopt me, please look at my coat and think about how much time you want to spend grooming me. Please think seriously about the cost of my food and vet care.
11. I have the right to die peacefully of old age in the arms of people who love me.
1. I have a right to be adopted by someone who wants a dog. I will only be a puppy for a few months. Will you still love me when I am no longer a cute little baby?
2. I have a right to be adopted by you, not your children. Your children will not walk me, feed me, or groom me. They are quite likely to lose interest in me as soon as the novelty of my presence in your house wears off. They will grow up and move away and I will be left behind with you. If you don’t want me for yourself, please don’t adopt me.
3. I have a right to your patience and understanding. I will poop and pee in your house, terrorize the cat, chew on the children, the furniture, and you, jump on everyone and everything, raid the trash, and destroy your favorite pair of shoes. If you are not prepared for this, please adopt a grownup dog that already knows how to behave.
4. I have a right to successful training.
5. I have a right not to be the victim of your inability to train me. You have no right to condemn me to life in the back yard or crate me for hours on end because I misbehave. I am a baby dog; you are a human, supposedly an intelligent creature created in the image of God. If I don’t learn, it’s because you didn’t teach me right.
6. I have the right to be spayed or neutered. I am homeless now as a result of irresponsible breeding. Don’t make me make more homeless puppies.
7. I have a right to exercise. I need to be walked every day or have playtime in the yard. I should not spend more time in a crate than out of it. See right number three.
8. I have a right to your love and attention every day whether you are in the mood or not, regardless of how tired or stressed or busy you are. I never said that caring for me would be easy. Besides, no matter how tired, busy or stressed I am, I will always have time to show my love for you.
9. I have a right to be in the house with you when you are home. I am a member of your family. You don’t keep the children on a chain in the backyard or locked up in a crate or kennel, do you?
10. I have a right to be kept clean and healthy. Before you adopt me, please look at my coat and think about how much time you want to spend grooming me. Please think seriously about the cost of my food and vet care.
11. I have the right to die peacefully of old age in the arms of people who love me.
please don't tell me how the story ends
I found out that the "no-kill" shelter where I volunteer killed a dog over a year ago, a dog I loved. The people involved in making the decision to kill her deliberately hid their act from me, but that's not what bothers me. It's the unfairness to the dog. And my grief for her. And my grief for myself because all this time I have been harboring hopes that someday I would be able to adopt her.
I met her on the Skokomish Reservation where she was scavanging for food in garbage cans. I was afraid of her at first; I was not familiar with pit bulls or dogs in general. She had a queenly confident air that intimidated me a bit.I have a snapshot of memory of the first time I petted her---I held out my hand for her to sniff and then she stepped under my palm for a pat. Later, when we got close, she would roll over for tummy tickles or sit and lick my face.
She wasn't a pretty dog. She had the big blocky head and little floppy ears of a pit but a plume tail and stiff medium legnth fur like a cattle dog. She was midsize and slender. One of her back legs was malformed but it didn't bother her.
I fed her through the winter. One dark evening I found her in my client's garage on a stinky funky horrible old couch. It was raining, a miserable evening. Her face was crisscrossed with lacerations and her paws swollen up. I got food and water for her and wrapped her in a blanket. She cuddled up to me and lay her head on my lap. I promised her that I would always be her guardian angel.
Please don't tell me how the story ends.
The worst of it is that she was led to her death, after losing her adoptive family, by someone who didn't give a shit about her. She was grieving and scared when she died. I was not there to be her guardian angel. No one who cared about her was there to comfort her.
I don't love the easy dogs. I find the slutty ones sort of boring. That promiscous "I lub-a-dubba-everybody" type dog does indeed love everyone...equally and easily. I like a dog that actually prefers me to other people. That's the kind of dog Lassie was: the kind that invests heart and soul in her people to the exclusion of all else. And her people betrayed her. Everyone betrayed her.
It took about a week of serious work for me to get to the point where I could write a letter to the kennelmaster about Lassie's death. I wanted to hurt the people who killed her. I wanted to stomp off in a huff and never go to the rescue again. I wanted to tell the world that a no-kill shelter had, without thought, almost on impulse, killed a dog. I wanted revenge.
But I also wanted to stay involved. I love being involved in dog rescue. Also I am trying to be a good Buddhist and that means not being hateful to people no matter how much they might deserve it.
Besides they might not deserve to be treated hatefully. People make mistakes. I do all the time.
I did write a letter to the kennel master and I did tell her how wrong the decision to kill Lassie was, how unfair to her. But I was very careful to stay away from anger. The tone of the letter was sad, not hurtful.
Turns out the kenelmaster agrees with me. She's had a bad conscience about that decision for over a year. She said that she had prayed to God many times for forgiveness. She asked if I would forgive her.
It's not for me to forgive. Our kennel master is a wonderful, dedicated person who has saved literally thousands of dogs over the years. She makes many, many decisions and can't be expected to make every decision right. I just want the rescue to review its euthanasia policy to make it harder for this sort of rush to judgement to happen again. That's what the rescue can do to atone.
Good by, Lassie.
For you, I make this promise: I will finish my novel and publish it. I will meditate every day and try to be a good Buddhist. And my next dog will be a hard -to- place dog, a pit or a black dog or a handicapped dog, a dog no one else wants. I promise you that and I promise that I will be my new dogs guardian angle no matter what.
I met her on the Skokomish Reservation where she was scavanging for food in garbage cans. I was afraid of her at first; I was not familiar with pit bulls or dogs in general. She had a queenly confident air that intimidated me a bit.I have a snapshot of memory of the first time I petted her---I held out my hand for her to sniff and then she stepped under my palm for a pat. Later, when we got close, she would roll over for tummy tickles or sit and lick my face.
She wasn't a pretty dog. She had the big blocky head and little floppy ears of a pit but a plume tail and stiff medium legnth fur like a cattle dog. She was midsize and slender. One of her back legs was malformed but it didn't bother her.
I fed her through the winter. One dark evening I found her in my client's garage on a stinky funky horrible old couch. It was raining, a miserable evening. Her face was crisscrossed with lacerations and her paws swollen up. I got food and water for her and wrapped her in a blanket. She cuddled up to me and lay her head on my lap. I promised her that I would always be her guardian angel.
Please don't tell me how the story ends.
The worst of it is that she was led to her death, after losing her adoptive family, by someone who didn't give a shit about her. She was grieving and scared when she died. I was not there to be her guardian angel. No one who cared about her was there to comfort her.
I don't love the easy dogs. I find the slutty ones sort of boring. That promiscous "I lub-a-dubba-everybody" type dog does indeed love everyone...equally and easily. I like a dog that actually prefers me to other people. That's the kind of dog Lassie was: the kind that invests heart and soul in her people to the exclusion of all else. And her people betrayed her. Everyone betrayed her.
It took about a week of serious work for me to get to the point where I could write a letter to the kennelmaster about Lassie's death. I wanted to hurt the people who killed her. I wanted to stomp off in a huff and never go to the rescue again. I wanted to tell the world that a no-kill shelter had, without thought, almost on impulse, killed a dog. I wanted revenge.
But I also wanted to stay involved. I love being involved in dog rescue. Also I am trying to be a good Buddhist and that means not being hateful to people no matter how much they might deserve it.
Besides they might not deserve to be treated hatefully. People make mistakes. I do all the time.
I did write a letter to the kennel master and I did tell her how wrong the decision to kill Lassie was, how unfair to her. But I was very careful to stay away from anger. The tone of the letter was sad, not hurtful.
Turns out the kenelmaster agrees with me. She's had a bad conscience about that decision for over a year. She said that she had prayed to God many times for forgiveness. She asked if I would forgive her.
It's not for me to forgive. Our kennel master is a wonderful, dedicated person who has saved literally thousands of dogs over the years. She makes many, many decisions and can't be expected to make every decision right. I just want the rescue to review its euthanasia policy to make it harder for this sort of rush to judgement to happen again. That's what the rescue can do to atone.
Good by, Lassie.
For you, I make this promise: I will finish my novel and publish it. I will meditate every day and try to be a good Buddhist. And my next dog will be a hard -to- place dog, a pit or a black dog or a handicapped dog, a dog no one else wants. I promise you that and I promise that I will be my new dogs guardian angle no matter what.
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