Over the years that I have read and posted to Daily Kos, I have read many diaries by bereaved people who had lost their companions. They were always heart-rending. Each time that I would read one of those diaries, I realized that, someday, it might be my turn to express my grief.
The Fates have decreed that it is now my turn to write such a diary.
On Tuesday, we had to say goodbye to our beloved Abélard. I have been unable to write this tribute to his memory until now. Tears and keyboards do not mix well.
Abélard was our second Standard Poodle. Balzac, who had black hair, was our first. Balzac came into our family via a breeder of Standard Poodles near Point of Rocks, Maryland. Balzac became part of our family when our son was old enough to take some responsibility for caring for a dog. We thought that it would be a good experience for him.
Balzac died suddenly in his sleep at the age of eight. We had had a health scare about six months previously, but at a veterinarian’s recommendation, we put Balzac on a special diet, and it appeared to work wonders. There was a clue a few weeks before he died that something was wrong, but we did not pick up on it.
My wife found Balzac dead on the floor around four in the morning when she got up to go to the bathroom. Although we did not have an autopsy done, we suspect that he died of a massive heart attack. There was no audible sign of distress. If there had been, my wife surely would have awoken, because she has always been a light sleeper.
Two years later, my wife went to the shopping mall closest to where we then lived. While walking on the upper level of the mall, she happened to turn her head, and across the open central span of the mall, saw a pair of poodle eyes in a pet shop window. An Apricot puppy was looking directly at her. She crossed the nearest walkway and looked at him through the storefront glass.
My wife came home and told me about the gorgeous creature that she had encountered. I decided to go down to the mall to see for myself. Upon laying eyes on him, I agreed, yes, this is a truly beautiful dog. I went into the store and expressed interest. We had a get-together session in one of the sitting areas. He was so happy, so joyful. I signed a contract on the spot. I could not take him home, as he was too young. (State law restricts the sale of a puppy who is less than eight weeks old.)
About a week and a half later, I and my wife went down to the mall to pick Abélard up. (In the interim, we had gone to the mall a few times to visit him.)
Right around the time that Abélard came into our lives, we were in the process of purchasing a home in a rural setting… clad in local stone (“Butler Stone”), in the transition zone between the Coastal Plain and the Piedmont, on just shy of nine hilly acres of mostly oak tress, with some hickories and walnuts thrown in. Two streams (one a tributary of the other) run through the property. The house is set near the top of a steep hill, far back from a winding, two-lane country road in the Maryland Horse Country.
The road is a designated scenic byway, and weight-limited bridges that cross the streams in the area limit the sizes of vehicles that can travel on the road. It is a beautiful setting, almost a different planet from where I grew up (in New York City).
Walks down the long, steep driveway to the road, and then back up to the house, three or four times a day, became an integral part of our routine. Stopping along the way to bark hello to a pair of horses that live on an adjoining parcel soon also became part of that routine. Picking up branches to be used for kindling in the fireplaces, and to be traded for treats, became another facet of our walks to and from the road. The lead picture comes from one of those walks.
Poodles are water dogs, and Abélard was no exception. He used to love to go down to the streams and to chase frogs, and submerged leaves that were drifting by. We last did that about three weeks ago, on one of his better days. Even in the moment, there was a bittersweet quality.
Going down to the basement after dinner to run model trains became our version of Vespers. He knew what lay ahead as soon as I put ice in a glass and splashed some single-malt onto the cubes. He practically had springs on his feet as he bounded down the stairs.
Abélard loved watching the trains roll by, especially if they made chuffing sounds or had bells and whistles.
He also loved to lie in front of the fire as the sticks that he had brought back up to the house gave themselves up into heat and flickering light.
This past October, a family moved into a house on the other side of the larger stream. (The elderly previous – original – owners had died, one and then not long after, the other, within the past year.) The newcomers brought with them a pair of small rescue dogs, and the dogs had an unplanned meeting one day. Within a few days, Abélard had developed a cough. My first thought was that perhaps he had caught something from one of his new neighbors.
A week or so later, the cough had not gone away, so we called a vet who has a mobile clinic. (Abélard, for some reason, was never too keen about car rides.) The vet made a house call, and determined that the cough was not due to a respiratory infection. Rather, it was due to an enlarged heart that was pressing against Abélard’s trachea. We tried one medication, and then it and another medication together. For a while, the cough got better.
After the turn of the year, Abélard’s energy level started to fail, and he had problems getting back up the stairs after Vespers. His back legs were weakening. Abélard also started to lose his interest in food.
Beginning about a month ago, he started having difficulty getting up off the floor. As his final illness progressed, Abélard started to have difficulty walking. He spent most of his days resting on the floor.
My wife said this past Sunday that we needed to call the vet. We had had a similar conversation about a week earlier, but then Abélard had a few good days, and I put off making the call. On Sunday, I agreed, and said that I would call Monday morning. I slept on the floor Sunday night next to Abélard. He seemed to take comfort from my presence.
Monday morning, I called the vet, and we discussed the situation. Due to other commitments, the vet could not make it to the house until late Tuesday morning.
Monday night, the both of us slept on the floor next to Abélard.
The vet arrived on Tuesday, and he agreed that the time had come. Abélard’s heart was racing, and was almost out of rhythm.
The vet administered a preliminary dose of sedative, and soon thereafter, the fatal dose.
My wife held him as he drifted off. Abélard died quickly and without any struggle or evident pain. Still, it was still a very difficult experience for us.
I then took his body to a pet crematorium that I had called the day before. The crematorium does only individual cremations, not communal cremations. It was about a half-hour's drive.
We had wrapped Abélard in a blue blanket and placed him on the back seat of the car. I drove with care, so that he would have a smooth ride. I played, on the car’s audio system, a CD that he and Balzac had enjoyed listening to over the years: The Standing Stones of Callanish by Jon Mark.
The people at the crematorium were very tender and compassionate. They handled the difficult task both with professionalism, and with empathy.
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A few weekends earlier, I had happened to be listening to one of those hour-long weekend shows that air on the local National Public Radio affiliate. At one point – and I do not remember how the script headed in this direction – the person speaking referred to a folk-myth found among people in Nepal.
As the legend goes, in the distant past, before dogs had become domesticated, the life spans of people and those of dogs were the reverse of what they are today. Dogs lived long lives, and people lived short lives. The dogs had the benefit of longevity, but life in the wild posed all
sorts of challenges and perils. The dogs got together and discussed the situation among themselves.
When the canine assembly had reached a consensus, the leaders of the dogs left their companions, approached the humans, and made a proposition to them. The dogs would agree to trade life spans with humans, to loyally serve humans, and to give humans unbounded affection and loyalty. In return, the humans were to pledge to faithfully take care of the dogs, to provide to them food, shelter, and compassion for their shortened lives, and to give them love and affection in return.
The humans agreed, the bargain was struck, and the exchange was made.
Ever since, people have lived relatively long lives, and dogs much shorter ones. It has continued to be our duty to live up to our side of the bargain, as the dogs have always lived up to theirs.
The legend deeply resonated deeply with me when I heard it, as I knew that we did not have much time left with Abelard.
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While the cremation was underway, I stood outside for a long time. It was a cloudy and cool day, with a threat of rain. After perhaps 45 minutes, maybe an hour, the woman who owns the facility, and who had assisted me upon our arrival, came out. She suggested that I might want to go to a restaurant a short drive away and get something to eat. I told her that I would think about it. Even as those words were forming and leaving my lips, I already knew that I could not leave. I also knew that I would not be able to tell her why – I would not have been able to get the words out without dissolving into sobs. As it was, I was barely able to maintain my composure.
It is easier to write out my reason for staying than to vocalize it, even now. Here’s why I stayed: had the roles been reversed, Abelard would surely have stayed near me, no matter how long the process might take, no matter how hungry he might have been. As the Fates had decreed that his time to leave this world was to come before mine, I could do no less for him.
Quite frankly, I could not imagine leaving and sitting in a restaurant. The thought of food held no appeal. I felt duty bound to stay nearby: partly based on that ancient, legendary pact between the dogs and our forebears, and partly based on Abelard's total loyalty to us every day of his life.
For a long while, I watched the hot gases exit the chimney and convect up into the sky. The air rippled for some altitude, and then, gradually, the perturbations faded into the constancy of the steel-grey sky.
I brought Abélard’s remains back home in the early evening. As I opened the door carrying his remains, I had a start. I almost thought that he would run to the door to greet me, as he had every other time. Then the reality hit me.
Since then, I have been thinking about a story that was in the news a long time ago, but also more recently. You may have read about it... the story of Hachiko, the faithful Akita who daily would go down to the train station and wait, in the constant hope that his (dead) master would return. He did this for the rest of his life.
Hachiko has since been memorialized in statuary, and more recently, he and his master have been as well.
Dogs really are amazing creatures. They are utterly and unreservedly open to us.
We suffer greatly when they leave us because we have opened ourselves to them and have formed loving relationships with them.
We could save ourselves the pain of separation, but at the cost of never establishing such relationships in the first place.
Is that really the better alternative? Even in the depths of my grief, I think not. It would entail at least as heavy a price as we pay when the time comes: we would miss all of the joys that our best friends bring to us while they are with us.
The German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, held Standard Poodles in the highest regard. He had several of them over the course of his life. He preferred their company to that of people. Based on some of the bipeds that I have dealt with over the years, I can understand why.
Schopenhauer named several of his dogs Atma, the Hindi word for Soul. Abélard certainly had a pure Soul.
Relatively early in his career, Beethoven wrote a short vocal piece, Elegy on the Death of a Poodle.
One line of the lyrics is: “Geliehen ist uns alles, was wir lieben...."
Translated into English, “All that we love is merely loaned to us."
That is certainly a true statement.
If you are lucky enough to have the companionship of a furry loved one, please give him or her (or each of them!) a scratch behind the ears, or under the neck, or a rub on the belly – wherever they most enjoy – with my regards. Treasure them as they treasure you. Remember, all that we love is merely loaned to us, and we must not take our companions for granted. We must uphold our side of that ancient bargain.