This Shroud Shall Be Liftted

The very afternoon I returned from the veterinary specialist saying goodbye to Bow, I came into the kitchen to see that black netting was covering the kitchen window where the painters are doing final prep work for painting of the back of my building. Major renovations of my building started shortly after Bow arrived, and I always said that she was supervising them. She did not live to see this final work, but I keep taking comfort in knowing that this work that will likely last 20 years will be embedded with the memory of Bow being here to watch over it as it progressed.

The rug on the kitchen was a favorite place for Bow to take her morning sun baths, and she always looked so blissful and elegant there. The kitchen seems so dark right now, as if protected during this fragile time. It will be just a few days and the shroud will be lifted. Not long after that, her ashes will be returned. Having those last bits of matter to rest here in her home with me forever will bring me some comfort. I am working at moving through this pain, knowing that grief is the enormous price we pay for such incredible love and a bond that will always exist through it. I know that there is more love on the other side of this, and I can feel it now through the bite of such enormous grief.

The Morning After

I don't know how I made it through the first night without Bow. I just managed to do it. The many messages of support from so many quarters helped. Most were virtual messages not phone calls which helped. I needed to be alone, feel the emptiness. Having lived with illness for over a year, that emptiness was both agonizing and a relief. Bow was gone, but so was her suffering.

My sleep was calm, and I rose before 6:30, amazed by how okay I felt. My instincts told me that I needed to keep to our routines. Twisted as it may sound, I readied like any morning, but her collar in my pocket and began to walk our usual two mile route. Immediately I felt comforted to know that while her physical presence was not there but all the familiar things were. Life does go on. I felt that I was going to be fine, agonizing as it might be.

At the end of the second block, the little girl that greets us every morning must have seen the top of my head from her window and called out "Good morning, Bow. I love you Bow." For the first time since it happened I wept. I am not sure they were tears of grief. Having lived with her cancer for over a year, I feel that much of that time was filled with grief and dread of the eventual passing of my beloved.

As I walked further, I passed many familiar neighbors and their dogs, not able to make eye contact. Many had commented on how concerned they were about Bow and me in the previous weeks, and it had been more than a month since she could make it past the first few blocks. In that moment, as I could feel people sensing my sadness as I walked I felt her with me, felt the way she touched so many lives in this neighborhood. Someday I will walk this same route with another basenji, and as it pulls on the leash and I know what to do, I will feel Bow with me. I will know what to do because of her, and in that moment I will know that she is there living within me.

Our Inner Mother and Inner Goldie Child

(After a long absence, we're glad to be back with another Sepia Saturday contribution. Check out the others here.)

Of all the challenges of growing older, I think the most difficult and comforting is dealing with the memories of those we will never see again on this earth and how their memories and presence grows stronger.

It should be no surprise to focus on my mother this week for Sepia Saturday after several weeks "out of the game". The last Mother's Day I celebrated with her was in 2003. She died March 12, 2004.

This above picture of her is from around 1927 with my mother in the center, the "sullen" child as she would sometimes call herself and her younger sister Goldie in foreground on the left. They was barely 16 months between them, and my mother often said that they were the mirror opposites of the greater whole. My mother was the serious, cautious, protective, reflective one -- always calculating risk and potential hazards. Goldie was, quite literally, the Golden Child -- joyous, foolhardy, always running, never afraid, and always singing. Her golden locks brought her the name of her maternal aunt.

My grandfather was the conductor of the Alameda line street car in Kansas City at the time. Goldie and my mother would often ride with him. My mother would sit in an obscure corner with good light and read a book. Goldie would prance into the center of the car, delighting my grandfather -- a huge fan of jazz and the Charleston -- as she sang "Birmingham Bertha" or "Sweet Georgia Brown", hands on her hips and she did pelvic twists wise beyond her mere three years.
Here we see Mother and Goldie in the spring of 1931. It was a rainy, sick season. Three weeks later Goldie died of rheumatic fever. The family never recovered on many levels. My grandfather invested hard earned Depression dollars on tap and voice lessons for my mother, who was clearly a book not stage person. They went to Shirley Temple movies at once uplifted and heart sick as the cheerful singing tot reminded them too much of Goldie. Years later, I remember my mother watching Paper Moon with me, but suddenly running out in tears as Tatum O'Neal's tough cookie preteen in a bowl cut reminded her too much of what her sister would have been at that age. This photo of my mother and her parents from 1937 was often called the "wave shot" for obvious reasons. There is poise and happiness in the three but I also see the pain in their faces from the loss of the fourth family member that should have been in the photo. A few months later, my mother's second sister, Barbara arrived. She was a beautiful woman on many levels but had a strained relationship with my mother and her parents from the start. My mother resented a baby coming into the house when she was about to enter her teens and felt she often played the role of the nanny. My grandparents groomed her from the start as the "new Goldie" instead of recognizing her unique, individual personality. She had an aptitude and competence in music, but it was always an uphill, deliberate skill for her. She feigned an effervescence, always cracking rather awkward jokes and laughing but never taking to it intuitively.

At the risk of this sounding like a morbid and downbeat Mother's Day post, I'll qualify why I have, with the passage of time, have come to love and appreciate my mother even more. Sometimes I think what drew my parents together was that both of them came from households that were tortured by the loss of a daughter at a young age. From the outset, they said that they would raise their children with no expectations of who or what they should be but honor their personalities. I can remember being taken aback in high school when my father told me, "You know, I've never raised a son before, so we're both sort of learning this as we go." As a tot, I had a reputation of breaking out in song at family gatherings or in shopping centers , hands on hips and gyrating as I got wrapped up in my own act. My parents -- and even my grandfather -- looked on with pleasure and no judgment, even if I was singing "The Man I Love" or "My Boyfriend's Back" at pitch volume at the Piggly Wiggly. A bit of Goldie did live on in the family, without pain, and I feel blessed to have parents and grandparents who could embrace it coming from the most unexpected of packages.

January's Circle

A good friend of mine, who I only see every three or four years because she lives in Cairo, is in town to see her mother through the final stages of terminal cancer. The last time I saw her and her mother was Thanksgiving two years ago when I'd recently lost my father. Over the past six weeks, I've had close to casual acquaintances and relatives lose spouses, parents and children. That, of course, becomes a reality at a certain age. It reminds me to take stock of likely losses and blessings in my own life. I know there will be more, but not in the immediate future I hope, seeming to have lost all that could be lost in the past five years. Sometimes it feels like a clean slate, and for the first time in years I feel that I can be of support and instead of the one needing support but retreating from it.

I thought of five years ago, the last time I saw my mother before she was gone a few weeks later. As I heard about others losses, that so typically come at the very end and beginning of the year, I didn't feel contentment in knowing that it was not my own loss but a certain relief in knowing you can lose a parent only once but sustain the loss forever.

On a day like today -- when the weather was gloriously perfect -- it was hard to think that anyone was in pain or experiencing loss, but a quick scan of headlines or e-mail quickly shatter that reality. Having a couple of walks with Bow in the sun, neither of us needing a jacket, it was a pleasure to be removed from that reality, even knowing that a glorious day like today is an omen of drought, heat and water rationing in the months ahead. But it was pleasant for that moment.

The Gift of Guru

Sigh.

Okay, my last post about Guru wasn't completely dishonest, but I do feel compelled after coming to grips with the full brunt of my agony of the past week by filling in some details. Much as I appreciate the many condolences about his departure, I fear some people think he has gone to a new home where he is getting the care and training he needed to succeed. I'm sad to report that's not the case, and I've gone through the roller coaster of emotions with rescue dogs that can range from joy to heartache. In this case it was the latter, mainly due to human stupidity.

Let me start at the beginning.

Two months ago when I got the unexpected call about a basenji being placed with me, I didn't fully understand that I was even being considered as a foster dad then. The rescue group needed a place for this very troubled pooch to be calm since previous assignments had not worked out. After three failed placements where he had attacked other dogs, people and finally trashed the house of a dogless house, there was no other option. What was not expected was that after showing agitation and panting when he arrived, within five minutes he was calm. After 15 minutes he was snuggled up next to me, and I agreed to give him a last chance.

Our time together alone was perfect. He responded to every command. In the rare case where he tried to chew something or jump where he wasn't supposed to, he obeyed on the first command. We had some good initial walks. Adoption seemed imminent.

But signs of aggression started emerging. I started investing in trainers, the first one bailed, the second said it would take months, maybe years and thousands of dollars and still might not work. I kept paying and moved forward. When I was in New York, he attacked the sitters who refused to return. I tried a supplemental trainer.

There seemed to be signs of improvement, with him even looking back at me for guidance on our walks. And then we'd pass another dog or jogger and he'd growl, lunge and sometimes grab a person's jacket as I became the target or increasingly hostile scorn and cursing in the neighborhood. I opted out from walks and let him keep in the house and yard, only to have to deal with him wanting to tear down the fence when he heard the dog next door.

My pleas of placing him with a more experienced foster through the rescue group got a response that the only option was that he'd have to be put down since he was, in a word, unadoptable.

Details of his troubled past started emerging. He was probably the product of a puppy mill. He was placed in a pet store where he left unattended much of the time and in a pen where he lay in a bed of his own feces. No one seemed interested in buying him, and he was marked down to half price and finally adopted by a woman in suburban Sacramento, an Iraq war veteran with severe physical and mental scars from the war.

She projected her many issues on to him and put him on anti-depressants. She made him her protector and baby, pitting him against various significant others and family members who moved in and out of the house. Only this week did the rescue group learn that there had been previous attempts to have Guru turned over to them because of his aggressiveness.

Had I known all of this, I probably never would have brought him in. But I only saw the full potential of his aggressiveness over the past two weeks during several close calls and a blood dripping biting incident last Saturday. At the same time, he became ever more affectionate with me. But the question remained if he might one day turn on me remained.

The only option offered to me by L__________ with the rescue group was having him put down, something I refused to consider until I was away this week and could gain some objectivity. I ached when I made the decision but knew it was right.

The second I walked in the door, he greeted me with an ecstatic whimper that seemed to say he loved me more than life itself. The last 18 hours with him were excruciating and glorious as he showed me so much love and appreciation. I longed for him to show a dark side so I would be further convinced that I was making the right decision.

I had come to perceive L_________ with the rescue group as heartless, even though she kept emphasizing that she was dealing with 200 adoptable dogs in desperate need of homes and this was a dog that no one would take or that it would be a great risk to put him in another home. I opted out not going with her to the vet, knowing I would likely collapse. I just asked that she make his departure as quick and unemotional as possible. Then I thought she was awful when she greeted us cheerfully and petted Guru as if nothing was wrong. She smiled and said that it would be a quick procedure and that she would be back in 45 minutes. How could she be so emotional? At least Guru seemed calm and confident as he walked away with her, and he disappeared from my sight forever.

Nearly two hours passed before she returned. I was sure that my wonderful, kindly vet had intervened and was going to take Guru into her own home. My heart sank when the doorbell rang and there stood L____ with the empty collar and leash. She had an ironic smile and shook her head silently as she walked in, hanging her head as she settled in my leather wingback chair. Finally she broke down in tears and said, "This was one of the hardest endings I've ever been through." Guru required several injections of sedatives before he was finally out, and L________ had bandages on her arms from where he attacked her.

She remained for more than an hour as we bonded over stories of wonderful pets in our past and I moved from seeing her as someone with a heart of stone to a saint who drives easily 2500 miles a week rescuing basenjis from wacko owners, shelters and danger. And, of course, she does it all as a volunteer out of the love of the basenjis. Most of the stories have happy endings, but sometimes there are cases like Guru -- wonderful, loving, gorgeous basenjis who have been so damaged by ignorant humans that think they are their babies and not canines needing protection, boundaries, rules and affection. Humans and animals operate in radically different worlds and too many people fail to see that place where we do connect is precious and should not be misconstrued as a place to fulfill our own dashed dreams.

By the time L________ had left, I'd agreed to become a volunteer with the rescue group, one possible assignment being helping a 28-year-old man who this week learned he is HIV-positive and may have a support basenji.

When I made the arrangements for Guru's procedure, I decided to have a private cremation afterwards so I could scatter his ashes in my back yard with my cats and give him a memorial stone. The thought that he was no more than another discarded and unwanted animal was more than I could deal with. In his two months with me, he earned his right to be honored next to my two wonderful cats who shared my life for 20 years.

My intent was that I was going to adopt him Tuesday night, a bit of news I could add to the jubilation of knowing we will soon be saying President Obama. As I heard about the continued news about the polls, it made me cry knowing that this won't happen.

A basenji will, indeed come into my life. Every time I cherish my time with him, I will thank Guru for teaching me that every moment of frustration is worth it, that nothing can equal the joy of seeing that little curled tail relax and wag. I don't think I will ever be at peace with the decision I made. Many times I have regretted it and wonder if there might have been one more resource out of there that might have helped Guru succeed. He reminded me that I still have the capacity to love and endure trying circumstances. I picked one of the most difficult breeds to foster and one of the breeds' most challenging members. But I don't regret a minute of it.

Thanks for enduring this long post, if you've made it this far, and I will try not to obsess on this sad chapter again soon.

UPDATE: Thank you to the many old friends and new ones who have expressed such compassion. If you would like to honor the memory of Guru by making a contribution to help more basenjis find wonderful homes, you can visit this page on the Basenji Rescue and Transport (BRAT) site.

Bunter - August 9, 1989 - August 15, 2008

Lost and Found; Sad and Glorious

Poor Flossie, if I see you I'll take you back home. Sniffle, sniffle.
This portrait in the window of Gypsy Honeymoon reminds me of my Whimsey who's been gone almost two years but by no means forgotten. Sniffle, sniffle.

Four Years, Fading to Darkness

It was four years ago tonight that my mother died, followed a year and a half later by my father after dealing with Alzheimer's. There were a few other losses in the middle of all this and shortly after, a whirlwind that was oddly wedged by two movies that seemed emblematic -- Trouble in Paradise when I got the news about my mother, Tokyo Story when I found out about my father.
I came away with definite insights, but I don't find myself at that different point than where I was four years ago. But now, as I reflect on the cycle of loss, I no longer feel sadness, only memories that haven't dimmed but no longer sting.

Diving Further into the Blue, the Lure of the Lost

Two exes called this week. Exes ask questions they would never ask when we played house or held each other on groggy Sunday afternoons. Sunday afternoons with the cat still have some of that feel, of our breathing joining, harmonizing, each trying to guess when the distance will begin. Or was it always there? But when the cat walks away there is no second guessing. His departure has nothing to do with me. His return and that of the exes can be taken as the same. The exes offer to tend to the cat during my travels with an enthusiasm that was never there when they performed the same dutiful task during out time as a pair.

One ex wants to be together on Mother’s Day since we both are without parents in the living world. At what age is one not allowed to use the word orphan?

The other ex sighs with pity when I gleefully recount recent dinners and movies I’ve experienced alone, filled with the glory of being so fully in the moment bereft of explaining or apologizing to an ungrateful companion. Then the usual questions come up about when I had my last coupling, when will I have my next. “Aren’t you aware that time is finite?” I am asked, as if I must hunker down before the storm hits. I look out at the gray skies, knowing that it is fog not showers lingering in those clouds.

Although I sometimes miss the dramatic thunder and lightning of past venues and partners, I relate that I have one, possibly two suitors beyond the calm but murky horizon. Each holds promise, but there is no need to hide from tornadoes or hurricanes in this climate. Both are in the distance, but very real, I try to clarify. Both are a few hundred miles away which garners more guileless pity from the ex as I explain what a charge this anticipation brings.

“It’s always about the invitation, not the dance,” I say, seeing the familiar distance across the table that we shared for more than five years. That distance would still be there no matter how passionately I might hold him, something I am surprised to find myself wanting to do at this moment, then taking comfort in the safety of pulling back. As we part, we hold each other a bit longer than we should and promise to get together more often. He never kissed me with such need when we shared the same rooms. Walking home, I wonder how many messages are waiting for me.

I return home to the cat adrift in his own dreams, keeping his eyes closed and curling even closer into himself as I rub his shoulders, his purrs growing ever louder in acknowledgment without ever opening his eyes. I close my own, think of a remote landscape and release my hand to feel further connected.

As I think of the conversations with both exes, I wonder if I revealed too much, or if they only wanted to stick a toe in the shallow pool, unaware that the deepest shade of blue is never the water itself but what lies beneath and seduces the viewer to dive in, never able to reach the true source of that cobalt hue. Then I remember that just this week an ancient ship wreck was discovered off Ocean Beach. It was there all the time but nobody looked deep enough.