Thirteen years ago, Chester became one of my best friends. School was closed due to rain and flooding, and a few of us were on campus mucking out. When I stepped outside, I saw a small dog crouched under a tree near the road. Whenever a large truck went by, he ran out barking and wagging his tail. Each time one failed to stop, he would slink back under the tree. He was cold, wet, hungry, and afraid, having learned from someone not to trust. Hunger won over fear; a meat sandwich left in the refrigerator tempted him beyond resistance. A full tummy, a bowl of water, and a warm towel later, we were friends. Chester was sick. A couple of days after we brought him home, he stiffened up and whimpered when he tried to move. The vet diagnosed a crippling but treatable illness, and Chester proved the miracles of modern antibiotics. Despite occasional relapses, he grew strong and healthy. He has chased, caught, and shredded hundreds of tennis balls. He got his picture in the paper when I wrote to the editor nominating him as a better candidate than David Duke, an ex-KKK member who made a brief bid for the presidency. (I guess I should have pursued his nomination. He's far more ethical than the beast that won and spent the next eight years in the White House.) He has slept beside my bed for the last thirteen years. He moved with us into this house. I've never lived here without him. That was a long time ago. Chester's once bright, intelligent eyes are now bleary with cataracts. He can't hear me call him and doesn't awaken at the smell of food held half an inch from his nose. The stiff joints that have plagued him intermittently since puppyhood have settled into persistent, crippling arthritis. He used to be so embarrassed--even ashamed--if he had an "accident" in the house. Now, he has trouble controlling himself and sometimes doesn't even seem to realize that he has left us "presents" on the carpet. Everyone tells me it's time to let him go. I was raised to deny anger ("Just get a hold of yourself.") and grief ("Just keep smiling."), so even at my age, I'm a relative neophyte at dealing with those emotions. Maybe that's why I'm struggling so deeply with the decision we have finally made. I'm angry--angry that life ends in death, angry at pain, angry at people who offer pithy platitudes as if they could solace a grief unshared and not understood. I have a friend who believes that dogs have souls and go to heaven. I wish I could believe that too, but I can't. My grandmother died last summer. She was 100 years plus a week old, and I never shed a tear. Death released her from an imprisoning body that had robbed her of all freedom and dignity. Heaven is better, a joyful reunion with her husband, daughter, mother, father, and Jesus, whom she loved (loves) more than anyone else. I miss her, but I could not cry for her. I can't seem to stop crying for Chester. I'm drawing a contrast here, not a comparison. There's no issue here of whether I love my dog more than my grandmother or any other such foolishness. Love takes many forms and can't be categorized or arranged into a continuum. I knew how to understand and cope with grandma's death; I don't know how to undestand Chester's. For a long time, we prayed for Grandma's release; as I said, heaven is better. When the time came, she went to sleep and just didn't wake up. I wish Chester could do the same. Somehow, that seems more right than having final sleep come from a veterinary IV tube. Maybe Chester wants to just go to sleep. I wish he could tell me. Heck, even I want to go to sleep and just be unconscious for awhile. The part of me that tends toward depression waxes strong. Love means risk, and I understand (perhaps a little better) people who don't let themselves get attached to dogs. I can't do that; my dogs have always been some of my best friends. Chester is one of four canine members of the family. The risk is great; the reward greater. I wouldn't want to have missed Chester's love and friendship for fear of risk, but I have to be honest about the risk now that it's real. I'm angry, and I hurt to my very soul. I feel too paralyzed to even think about the conference papers I should be working on. Instead, I work outside--pulling weeds, raking leaves, pruning trees--as if sweat could purchase solace. In my multi-ethnic lit class, we read a poem by a Native American author who claims that her language has no word for goodbye. They speak of later, another time, another place. I wish I could make myself believe that, but denial is ludicrous. (Just two days ago, I listened to my parents assuring a doctor that grandma was lucid to the end. This is the same grandma who hadn't known me for over a year and who asked if the bearded man walking down the nursing home hallway was Abraham or Isaac.) I have to deal in truth--in the truth that this is goodbye. It's a real word. I just don't know how to say it. posted by Annie 6:48 PM | . . .
