Yearly Archives: 2011

A past that has written itself on you.


Impossible to remove, erase, or wash away; permanent: indelible ink.
Making a mark not easily erased or washed away: an indelible pen for labeling clothing.
Unable to be forgotten; memorable: an indelible memory.

“Our consciousness is fickle and not worthy of the task of remembering.” (Rowlands, 2009, p. 46)

Memory is a place I have not wanted to go, because memory cedes he is gone, and my way of coping with Alec’s death has been to act as if he is still here with me somehow, because I cannot accept that he died the way he did. There it is. I said it. I still have “work” to do, obviously! I am not surprised. I have re-entered the world of the living wholeheartedly. I have even opened my heart to another dog and allowed myself to feel joy again. I emerged from the fog sometime in late spring, around the time I went to Germany. I felt very clearly that I was at a crossroads, or maybe on a seesaw with my grief is the better analogy. It was like I was teetering between two worlds, light and dark, up and down. That sounds so simple and trite, but I don’t know how else to describe it. Anyway, there was a point where I made a very conscious decision to move forward. I will write about that someday, but this is not that post.

Where was I even going with this?

Right. My fingers in their infinite wisdom, racing faster than my mind, seem to have typed “I cannot accept that he died the way he did.” As often happens, these words appeared on the screen before I knew what I was going to write. Some things we don’t say out loud even to ourselves I guess. So yeah, I still have work to do, despite the fact that I have gotten back up, and made room for other things in my life besides my grief. But even though I don’t walk around crying (or trying not to) every day, I do cry, and I do miss him, and I do still mourn. And I need to stay cognizant, because when I hear myself blurt out things like, “I cannot accept that he died the way he did,” I know I still have plenty of processing to do. I have made a lot of progress. But I am not healed.

Two things I have written about repeatedly are that 1) I have avoided organizing and going through photographs of Alec, and 2) my way of coping with his absence, since the moment he died (and truthfully since before, when I knew I was going to lose him), was to re-conceptualize our bond as not having ended but rather having changed form, like we had a new relationship, one that did not involve nor depend upon his corporeal presence (and as a non-religious person, this was definitely a huge leap of faith, or desperation). I had to tell myself he was still with me, somehow, some way. It was the only way I could  go on. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t explain it. Because I didn’t have all the answers, or even, as Alec’s death drove home, any of them.

“It is in our lives and not, fundamentally, in our conscious experiences that we find the memories of those who are gone.” (Rowlands, 2009, p 46)

So these two things, these recurring themes, are interlinked, right? My not wanting to go into the photos is like not wanting to go into the past is like not wanting to confront MEMORY is like not wanting to have the recalcitrant fact of his death, of his being gone,  hit me in the face. Now, what the heck does that sound like? It sounds like someone dealing with a bit of avoidance is what I would say, if I were hearing this from a friend. It’s funny because in some ways I have been a model of “good grief” (though, honestly, in other ways I have been its very antithesis) in that I certainly allowed myself to cry and cry and cry (and cry some more! no problem there) and I even have been able to use writing as a way to explore and process my feelings. Healthy emotional outlet, check. And yet, here I find myself saying I don’t want to deal with the fact that Alec, and my relationship with him, is a memory now. Because the only way I have made it this far is by dragging him with me, metaphorically, stubbornly refusing to consign him to the past (a topic discussed in other posts). But really, the regrettable transformation from companion to memory is the most obdurate fact in losing a loved one to death.

Memory sucks. Memory scares me, because it’s unreliable, and because it fades. I really haven’t spent much time thinking or writing about it (on purpose) but I always knew one day, when I was ready, I would tackle this subject (“just like the photos, I guess,” I say to myself with chagrin – but here I gently remind myself that grief has no statute of limitations).

As luck or fate or simple circumstance would have it, yesterday I received a nudge in the direction I need to go: forward. As I was reading The Philosopher and the Wolf, I came across an interesting passage on memory. This book is a memoir of sorts, a reflection on philosophy professor Mark Rowlands’ transformative relationship with his companion wolf, Brenin, who dies before the book begins. Rowlands’ ruminations on the difference between episodic memory and another, nameless (but far more meaningful) type resonated deeply with me. I really like his perspective on what for me is a terrifying subject (i.e. the caprice of episodic memory; it’s almost like a second way of losing someone). I am always on the lookout for keys to unlock the various doors in the sprawling prison of my grief. This is one such key. I share an extended excerpt here in hopes it may give someone else the same comfort in grappling with the slippery issue of memory. I have only just begun the third chapter, but I do recommend this book based on what I have read so far. Rowlands’ take on memory, as he apprehends a profound relationship receding into the distance of time, helps me as I continue to grope for meaning, for comfort, for keys. I found his words powerful (from pages 45-6):

There are different ways of remembering. When we think of memory, we overlook what is most important in favour of what is most obvious. A bird does not fly by flapping its wings; this is merely what provides it with forward propulsion. The real principles of flight are to be found in the shape of the bird’s wings, and the resulting differences in the pressure of the air flowing over the upper and lower surfaces of those wings. But in our early attempts to fly, we overlooked what is most important in favour of what is most obvious: we built flapping machines. Our understanding of memory is similar. We think of memory as conscious experiences whereby we recall past events or episodes. Psychologists call this episodic memory.

Episodic memory, I think, is just the flapping of wings, and it is always the first to betray us. Our episodic memory is not particularly reliable at the best of times – decades of psychological research converge on this conclusion – and is the first to fade as our brains begin their long but inexorable descent into indolence, like the flapping of a bird’s wings that gradually fades in the distance.

But there is another, deeper and more important way of remembering: a form of memory that no one ever thought to dignify with a name. This is the memory of a past that has written itself on you, in your character and in the life on which you bring that character to bear. You are not, at least not typically, aware of these memories; often they are not even the sorts of things of which you can be conscious. But they, more than anything else, make you what you are. These memories are exhibited in the decisions you make, the actions you take and the life that you thereby live.

It is in our lives and not, fundamentally, in our conscious experiences that we find the memories of those who are gone. Our consciousness is fickle and not worthy of the task of remembering. The most important way of remembering someone is by being the person they made us – at least in part – and living the life they have helped shape. Sometimes they are not worth remembering. In that case, our most important existential task is to expunge them from the narrative of our lives. But when they are worth remembering, then being someone they have helped fashion and living a life they have helped forge are not only how we remember them; they are how we honour them.

I will always remember my wolf brother.

So there you have it. The most inspirational thing I have read in a long time, and entree for me, a reluctant visitor, into the land of memory and meaning. My fear of the photos, of the past, is really the terror of my memory betraying me, which of course, it will. It betrays us all. But what of this other form of memory, the indelible one? Well, that brings me full circle to my #1 coping mechanism: forging a new relationship with Alec. You see, he can’t be gone. He is written all over me.

Live. Love. Honor. Remember.

Musical postscript: Certain songs sometimes attach themselves to posts as I am working through them. One of the theme songs for this post is Regina Spektor’s “Us”  and another is “Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet…” by Bright Eyes:

You are the roots that sleep beneath my feet
And hold the earth in place
Each time a faucet opens
Words are spoken
The water runs away
And I hear your name
No, nothing has changed

Roots, statues, love carved into us like poems… as I sort through the fragments of images and lyrics that float to the surface of my consciousness, it occurs to me that these are all metaphors for the same thing. This thing is too big for the words I could use to describe it, but I can feel it in my bones, where it has settled, permanently.


Filed under Grief and loss, Memory

So many jackets…

. . . so many forgotten cookies to be found in the pockets. It happened again today. I grab an old rain shell from the closet that I hadn’t worn in a long time. When I put it on, I feel something in the pocket. My hand closes around the Buddy Biscuit. And I remember. I remember everything. And I start to cry. It’s unexpected, like the cookie. It is a grief burst. I take the cookie man out of my pocket, put him on the table, and see that he’s broken. I try to put him back together, cry a little more, and then continue out the door with Teagan. I carry on with my day. But I don’t forget those broken pieces, that smiling cookie, my lost friend.


Filed under Grief and loss, Memory

Sharing our Stories.

This is a guest post I wrote for the ALDF blog this week. It was originally published here.

Sweet little Teagan, my newly adopted dog; we have been together three months now.

Well, it’s my turn to blog again, and I seem to be a bit of one-trick pony these days (pardon the speciesist expression), so here I go again, writing about love and loss. Words cannot express how deeply touched I was – and am – by the comments left on my last blog post (“Alec, Teagan, and Me”). I have my own blog, where I have felt comfortable expressing all of the messy, awful, bewildering, painful roiling emotions that engulfed me when my beloved shepherd Alec died. But this was my first time writing about grief for the ALDF blog, and I was apprehensive to post something so personal. Little did I know it would connect with so many people! I just re-read the comments again and tears streamed down my face as I did so. Every story, every relationship, is different, yet shares so much in common. These comments are windows onto so many dear and special relationships that cannot be quantified, explained, or forgotten, and I am privileged for the glimpse. To read such bittersweet stories of love and loss and resilience makes me feel strong, through osmosis, I guess…strength in numbers, a community of kindred spirits, a little club where people understand. Thank you for sharing with me and each other.

Alec and me“Grief is the price you pay for love.” Well I hated that one after Alec died, I really did. I know some people find this a comforting thought, and I understand how it could be. And it is certainly true. It just didn’t resonate with me in the beginning. It felt flippant; it didn’t seem to capture everything Alec and I had been through together, how unfair it felt to lose him that way. What did bring me a modicum of comfort (and I use that word, comfort, very loosely, as it was almost impossible for me to come by anything resembling comfort for a long time after he died – if anyone out there is in that dark scary place where I was, I’m sorry; trust me it does get better; I didn’t think it would either) was the knowledge that grief is a universal experience. Rare is the person who is not touched by grief in his or her lifetime. Although there was no grief *exactly like mine* (so unjust!) and no relationship *exactly like ours* (so special!) and no set of circumstances *exactly the same* (so many exacerbating factors!), it did help just knowing that there were people out there who could relate to some of what I was going through, if not all.

Some of these people I knew personally, and others came to me through words I read in books or stories I heard on the radio. Some were people who had suffered similar losses; some were people whose losses were in no way similar to mine save the feelings left at the end of it. The processing that must occur, the door through which the bereaved walks (forced march is more like) and steps out on the other side a new person, someone transformed inexorably, even if nobody knows but you. These commonalities were like an invisible thread connecting me to people I had never met. Yet we shared a bond. Reading your comments was like that too. They are a gift. I printed them out. I will treasure them. In fact they inspired me to begin a memorial project I have not been able to bring myself to face yet – the mountains of photos I have of Alec, the ones that in my mind will become a beautiful slideshow, a tribute to him and the life we shared together. The problem has been manifesting this vision, getting it out of my mind and tackling it in the real world. As tears slid down my cheeks reading your amazing stories of loyalty and pain and friendship and everlasting love I realized I was ready to go through his pictures. More than a year later, it’s true; this has taken me a long time. But he is not going anywhere (else), and neither is my love. I carry my grief with me like a satchel, like one of those hobo sacks on the end of a stick. Sometimes I put it down, but it is always with me. I take it from place to place, from day to day, from dawn to dusk and into the dark night. He is gone but my love for him remains. It is what is left of him. It feels weird, one-sided…almost imaginary. It wakes me up at night sometimes. It is the truest thing I can say about the way things are now. I am holding this love that never left. Like that Calvin & Hobbes cartoon where Calvin looks up and is suddenly sitting all by himself in the cafeteria; he was daydreaming and didn’t hear the bell. Everyone has gone to class. He is alone. It feels like that, a little. Where did you go? Why didn’t I hear the bell? And who pushed me through this goddamn door?

Watching the sunset with AlecI was talking to my friend not long ago about Alec, and I said that we exist outside of time now. Something like that. It just popped out of my mouth but I paused on it, considering what it meant, wondering why I said it. My perceptive friend heard me slip into ponder mode and said, “Hmm, I sense a future blog post.” Well I have not written about it until now, but I have thought about the idea of time a lot in the aftermath of Alec’s death. The tie-in here is the question of the photos, of being a weirdo who cannot create a slideshow of her dead dog until more than a year later. But, really, what is the rush? I always say people should not bury their grief deep inside, no matter how temporarily compelling it may be as a short-term survival strategy, because it can come back worse later. But I have been writing, I have been crying, I have been thinking, I have been talking. The pictures are tough for me though. And I think it’s because of the time thing. This is hard. Sometimes the particulars of grief are so clear in my mind yet difficult to write about. It’s like I keep Alec in my pocket, hold him close, can bring him out when I need …okay it’s like, you know how your favorite song can take on a wallpaper quality if you listen to it too much? I have always been the sort who when I fall really in love with a song or album, I have to limit myself in how much I listen to it because I don’t want it to lose that special magical quality and deep emotional resonance. I don’t want to wear it out. Not everyone does this. And I don’t do this with *every* song I love, just those really special songs by my favorite bands that I have some kind of weird connection with –an entire album like this for me is Neutral Milk Hotel’s In the Aeroplane Over the Sea (and this album is this for many people, I realize). When it came out in 1998 I was absolutely stunned and wanted to listen to it over and over all the time. But not wanting to dilute the awe those songs inspired in me, I rationed myself. And I never let it just play in the background. I limited myself to times when I could listen to the album with intention, to experience it fully. And though diminished somewhat in its ability to knock me over emotionally, it still feels fresh to me after more than 10 years.

What does this have to do with looking through photos of Alec? I guess I don’t want Alec to feel like a dusty old memory, like some song playing in the background that has lost its transcendent luster. And I fear if I stare at his pictures all the time they will lose some elusive quality, some freshness. They will become of the past, old and blurry relics. Because the thing is, they’re all I’ve got now, the only thing that is somewhat tangible and of the senses. There will be no new ones. Is this me trying to stop the passage of time, to corral it, to exert some measure of control in an area where I have been denied agency? I couldn’t stop his death but maybe if I lock the pictures away one day when I really need him it will be like meeting all over again for the first time. I don’t know. This is the first time I have really tried to articulate my problem with the pictures. Nobody gets it. In this way, my grief is more unique than universal. People really relate to some things I say, while others are more likely to get blank stares. This photo thing is one of the blank stare inducers.

I have a couple on my walls now. I am making progress. And I can’t stop time. But part of my grief process, most of what got me through the door to other side where I decided (yes, it was a conscious decision) I was going to survive, was the idea of forging a new relationship with him. The ghost of him, if you will. The “him” that is in my pocket, or my satchel, wherever non-corporeal Alec is, whichever imperfect metaphor is most apt. But for some people the most comforting thing they can think of is to surround themselves with photos of their deceased loved one. That is awesome. I wonder sometimes if I am doing my grief “right,” whether I am handling it properly. But then I realize there is no right or wrong answer and I think as long as I keep writing I will be okay. He will still be here with me.

One of the comments on my last post that struck me was SusanD writing about her beloved cat Champy’s death over fourteen years ago. She wrote: “I heard the usual clichés, ‘he’s at the Bridge,’ ‘it was his time,’ ‘you’ll get over it’ — I never did, never will. Fourteen years. Yesterday. An eternity.” I have said very similar things. Alec died more than a year ago. It feels like forever; it feels like 5 minutes. This is what I was saying to my friend in the conversation where I mused that we existed outside time now; I just remembered the context.

And Victoria commented about her dearly departed dachshund: “I don’t think that I will ever recover completely. Since then I have rescued two more doxies, and love them dearly, but…I am still waiting to be with my Scooter.” I can so relate to that too…that feeling of waiting. I don’t find comments likes this – “I will never get over it.” “I am waiting to be with him.” – depressing. They are beautiful to me. They are testaments to relationships that now exist outside of time. Whatever that means, I don’t know (I sometimes write things I don’t fully understand). But this comforts me.

And so does the sharing of stories. I wrote recently in my blog about how I love to hear Alec’s name, how I like to talk about him, to think about him. I know a large part of the pain of losing a loved one can be the feeling of having to keep it inside. Especially in the case of a companion animal, a bereaved person can be made to feel their grief is not legitimate. This is terrible and compounds the tragedy of loss. Social attitudes are changing, but outside the rarified air of ALDF and my simpatico circle of friends, I know it can be a harsh place out there for people grieving the loss of a dear animal companion. That is why we must share our stories – to give each other hope and strength.

Alec at the park in his cartBecause not everyone feels this way about their companion animals, it is even more important for us to share our stories. Many of us know what it is like not only to open our hearts and truly love a member of another species, but to enact that love with a commitment to the animal and his or her needs (I have personally always found the action part of the verb “love” to be more important than the more passive, feeling part). An animal doesn’t care that you say you love her – show her! Take her for a walk, include her in your life, be HER best friend! At ALDF we often say the law regarding companion animals has not caught up to changing social norms. The notion that animals are mere property is antiquated and has not kept pace with our changing perception of pets as family members. This is true, especially if you hang out in places like the ALDF blog (or in our office)! Yet for every person who mourns the death of a non-human best friend, for every person who turns her life upside down and finances inside out to accommodate a special needs animal or to treat a life-threatening disease, there is another person dumping their erstwhile “family member” at the shelter because they peed in the house, barked too much, shed all over the furniture, or simply required too much time and energy. Sadly, many of these healthy animals, each one as deserving of a loving home as the beloved individual animals in our own lives, will be put to death simply because nobody wanted them.

This shameful killing of former “best friends” happens every day, everywhere, because animals are property and the family member designation is arbitrary, something bestowed upon them by us – and not all of us. We can only hope to form a critical mass eventually, a tipping point where the more mainstream notion is that dogs and cats (and other species we have brought into our homes and made dependent on us) are companions with their own interests and lives – lives that mean everything to them – and not pretty set pieces or ornaments or animated stuffed toys or forgotten shadows on the end of the chain tied up alone in the backyard. The juxtaposition between the cherished relationships described in the comments on my last post and the ways some dogs and cats are (legally) treated is astounding when you really think about it. I believe ALDF and its supporters are at the forefront of a progressive trend. At ALDF we can bring our animal companions to work, we take dog walk breaks, and we are allowed bereavement days when they die – just like a human member of the family. So until not only the law but the rest of society starts to catch up with those of us who truly treat our dogs and cats like cherished friends and family members (not through misguided anthropomorphism but rather a careful consideration of their species-specific needs; to fulfill those needs in a human-centered society is not always easy, but those of us who have truly and respectfully loved an animal find the rewards far outweigh the challenges), we should keep sharing our stories and inspiring one another with our tales of love, commitment, and yes, inevitably loss…but equally inevitable, I hope, will be the post script: learning to love again.

Me and Teagan at the beachA year ago I could not imagine adopting another dog. Yet here I am, head over heels in love with a sweet little one-eyed German shepherd. I’m back in a dog-centric routine, trying every day to make someone happy again…walks, adventures, trips to the park, rides in the car, simple companionship. Teagan is so different from Alec, but she makes me feel close to him because of the joy she has brought back into my life. We have been together three months now. She is amazing and I love her. (To see some pictures of Teagan in her new home with me, you can visit her Facebook page.) I love the idea of adoption as a tribute. All the animals sitting in shelters hoping against a ticking clock that someone chooses them before their time is up would agree. And Teagan’s presence has been so healing to me. Not that I will ever completely heal. Or stop waiting for our miracle. Alec would have been eleven years old next month. Time marches on. But I am hoping he is still with us, with Teagan and me, somewhere outside of time, maybe waiting for me too.

Posted in ALDF Blog


Filed under Teagan

Music to my ears.

Alec. Alec. Alec. I love to hear his name. I think I always will. Sometimes people are afraid to bring up the deceased for fear of inadvertently triggering a flood of tears and/or emotion on the part of the griever. I can say that for me hearing Alec’s name causes quite an opposite reaction; it makes me happy. You might say this is because a year has passed and I am in a different place in the landscape of my grief. While this is demonstrably true, things were no different in this regard early on. Then, my tears were almost constant; even when I was not crying on the outside, I was bawling on the inside. Talking about Alec helped. It did not make the pain worse. At that time there was nothing that could have made the pain worse for me, honestly. His going, his dying, was as bad as that was going to get.

Far worse is when people do not mention the deceased, as if they never existed. It almost compounds the loss in that sense. Not only is the loved one’s physical presence gone, but their representation in the world of words is gone as well. Where did they go? Not being able to speak of the loved one does two things simultaneously. It foments the sense of confusion that often accompanies a profound loss, because talking is an important part of processing, and eventually healing. At the same time, the aggressive eradication of the loved one from the shared realm of conversation can bury the loss too quickly, a superficial covering over that will not last. In other words, efforts to spare the griever pain by not mentioning the loved one’s name (let alone venturing deeper into meaningful discourse) can have the opposite effect.

With regard to the well-intentioned desire to avoid reminding the griever of his or her loss by mentioning the deceased, well, I only have one thing to say about that: they don’t need reminding. What I mean is the loss is likely always on their mind, especially in the early stages, sometimes front and center, sometimes lingering toward the back, sometimes scurrying back and forth in the wings, but trust me, you are not making them remember something they had forgotten. So try it. If it is the wrong time, they will let you know by changing the subject…or hey, maybe dissolving into tears! If you try this and that happens, I’m sorry! I can only speak from my own (somewhat unique, somewhat universal) experience and I know that I cried *all the damn time* but the ferocity of the outbursts and intensity of the breakdowns really had nothing to do with hearing or not hearing his name. The few times I did feel better for a moment were after talking about it, about him, I can tell you that. But everyone is different. I might be really weird in this regard!

Talking about absent loved ones is a way to keep them close, to keep them with us always. Words can be bridges. They can even be conduits. Sometimes when I am writing I almost feel Alec running through me, buzzing in my fingers, over the keys, and onto the screen. It’s pretty neat. Words are powerful. Names most of all. And one is like the beauty and promise and inspiration of all my favorite songs melted and poured into two little syllables:


Filed under Grief and loss

Double (stuffed) bunny ear amputation.

Formerly one-eared bunny.

So Alec had this pink bean bag bunny. I can’t remember where he got it, or more accurately (because he wasn’t in the habit of obtaining his own toys, unlike his brother Kobi, who was a legendary forager and often found treasured items in the street), where I got it for him. It might have been one of the office toys at ALDF in California. Anyway, I remember bringing it to him when he was in the vet clinic following the emergency spinal surgeries that left him hospitalized for two weeks, so it must have been around the time he became paralyzed. He never showed much interest in the toy (it didn’t squeak or do anything interesting), except once, when he nibbled the bunny’s right ear cleanly off. After said ear amputation he never bothered with the bunny again. I’m not sure why I even held onto it; there were lots of toys he liked better and actually played with. Maybe because I thought it was morbidly adorable the way he removed the bunny’s ear so precisely like some twisted shepherd surgeon. So I kept the one-eared bunny, and it lived at the bottom of the toy basket.

Last night I pulled a bag of Alec’s toys out of the closet. I did not want to offer them to Teagan at first in case she immediately destroyed them. I have his favorite “blue thing” safely tucked away in a box for the time being, but I decided to bring a few of the other toys out. I wasn’t so worried about her destroying them now since Teagan has shown minimal interest in toys thus far. Also, I am more comfortable now with the toys being used again, which yes, includes possible destruction. They aren’t doing anyone any good in the back of my closet. And I liked seeing them out again.

[And of course the topic of what to do with all the “stuff” after a loved one dies could easily be a whole other series of blog posts. It is something I grappled with and have handled – and not handled – in various ways depending on the object in question. But, as usual, I digress!]

I tried to play with Teagan with the “new” toys last night but she wasn’t interested, which didn’t surprise me too much. But this morning she got a wild hair and grabbed one-eared pink bunny and started chomping on him a little. She suddenly was very interested in him! I was watching her carefully to make sure she did not rip him open since there were those beanie thingies inside when I noticed she appeared to be chewing intently on his other ear. Next thing I knew, bunny’s remaining ear had been bitten clean off!

Well done, Teagan! It was a team effort between her and the brother she never met; together she and Alec turned pink bean bag bunny into a grisly earless freak. Oh and after she chewed his ear off, she lost interest in the bunny, just like Ali. I thought it was pretty adorable. Out of all the ways Teagan could have reminded me of Alec, the weird and unlikely continuity in this cutely macabre act delighted me.

Finishing what Ali started: post amputation; severed ear is next to her left leg.

I like this story because I was recently reflecting upon how Teagan reminds me of Alec hardly at all. I wasn’t sure what to expect; they are both German shepherds after all. While I neither dreaded nor looked forward to them being similar, I prepared myself for there to be freakish similarities in their personalities just owing to the breed quirks, and for the possibility that I might feel like she was channeling him or something. Not at all. Her personality is very different. Teagan is calm where Alec was anxious, and laid back in ways  that he was neurotic. She chases birds, of which Alec took no notice, but not sticks, with which he was obsessed. She is afraid of the grating on sidewalks, but does not bark at ocean waves. Much to my chagrin, Teagan is even less interested in cuddling than Alec was (although I hold out hope that this will change with time!). These are just a few differences. Besides personality traits, she really just has a whole different energy.

Although I wasn’t necessarily expecting it (not that I don’t think animals are individuals, on the contrary! But breeds do share traits), I like that she is so different, so much her very own unique self. I find it comforting that the way Teagan reminds me of Alec, the way she makes me feel close to him, is not in her personality so much as the feeling she engenders in me, the sunshine she has brought back into my life. But today a similarity did emerge, and it made me smile: they both have a propensity for biting the ears off pink bean bag bunnies.

“And my work here is done.”


Filed under Teagan

Alec, Teagan, and Me.

I just wrote this post for the Animal Legal Defense Fund blog. It was originally published here.

My German shepherd Alec was many things to me: best friend, partner, dependent, roommate, constant companion, apple of my eye, cherished family member, wonder dog and inspiration. Most of all, he was my soul mate. Alec was the love of my life. When he died last year, I wasn’t sure I could go on without him, even if I wanted to. To some that may sound extreme, but Alec and I shared a special bond and had been through an intense journey together.

Nicole and Alec

It is a long story and I have a blog if you want to read more: But here is the extremely truncated version! When Alec was seven years old, a disc ruptured in his back and my hale, hearty and playful friend was suddenly paralyzed and given a poor prognosis that he would ever walk again. After he recuperated from two spinal surgeries, I had him fitted him for a mobility cart (doggie wheelchair), to which he adjusted quickly, and Alec was soon able to go on walks again. I took him swimming to make up for his not being able to run and fetch on land. I learned all I could about caring for a large paraplegic dog. I monitored him closely for signs of depression, but Alec was a happy dog, even with his new physical limitations. To cut to the chase, I did physical therapy with Alec from the start and, amazingly, he beat the odds. One year after he was given that poor prognosis, Alec began walking again. I had started my blog originally to keep friends and family updated, but I soon learned that Alec’s story had given others in similar situations hope that with consistent therapy, patience, time, and love their dogs too might recover, at least partially, from devastating neurological injuries.

Our happy ending was fated to be short-lived, however. After being out of his wheelchair only a year, Alec was diagnosed with a very aggressive and terminal cancer of the blood cells, hemangiosarcoma, which is nearly impossible to detect until it is already too late. But we had already faced down tremendous odds, and I wasn’t going to give up hope. I did everything in my power to save him, but it was not enough. Nothing worked – not chemotherapy, not herbs and holistic supplements, not prayer, not love. Alec died within a few short months.

Alec swimming

After all he had been through, I was devastated. He was only nine and seemingly healthy. I thought we had much more time to enjoy our relationship. While close before, our bond had deepened and further blossomed after his paralysis upended our lives. After that, we truly became a team. We trusted each other and worked well together. His well-being had always been paramount to me, but when he became disabled Alec became the center of my world. He was my sunshine. In a very real way I revolved around him. Not in a bad way. In the way that happens when you are a caretaker for a dependent being who has special needs. When he died, I was lost, in every possible meaning of the word. It was as if gravity itself had deserted me. I was drifting through ether, no weight, no compass, no purpose, nobody home, nobody to go home to.

His absence not only left a void where a cherished relationship and our physical closeness had been, but it also threw me into an existential tailspin, from which it was difficult to recover. My entire world view was shaken. I felt unsafe in a fundamental way. I knew life was unfair, or I thought I did. Yet I couldn’t get over how unfair it all was, how after all he had already been through Alec did not deserve to be stricken dead by cancer before he had a chance to become an old lazy shepherd and enjoy some well-deserved, stress-free golden years. Who said life was fair? I chastised myself for being surprised, nay shattered, by this obvious fact of life. Alas, it is one thing to know something intellectually and something else to experience it. I had to struggle mightily with the question of meaning. I am still wrestling with that one. I was a complete and utter wreck. Anyone who has suffered a profound loss will recognize some of these feelings, which only barely begin to sort of hint at the teeny tiny tip of the hulking iceberg that is grief over losing a cherished love one. Just like the iceberg, there are many surprises lurking beneath the surface, ready to sink your already shaky ship. The bottom line is that I was devastated. I had lost dogs before, but they were old. I could not get over the fact that Alec had worked so hard to overcome paralysis only to be struck down by cancer. I had tried so hard to keep him safe and healthy. Despite my best efforts, I failed.

When Alec died, I vowed I would never adopt another dog. The pain of losing him was too great, too total. It was cataclysmic. I felt like I was gone with him – not just a piece, but the whole me. This is the price, they say, for having loved deeply. It was too high. And besides, I had no interest. I didn’t want another dog, ever. I wanted him. I wanted Alec. I railed against the finality of his leaving, of him not coming back. It. Could. Not. Be. It was a thing that could not be. Predictably, this line of thinking did not work out so well for me. But maybe it did after all.

Because I loved him too much to lose him, I decided I wouldn’t. I had to redefine our relationship, and develop some new beliefs to get me through, but ultimately what enabled me to move forward was the idea that he was coming with me even though our relationship had changed. I am in good company. Many of the best grief books, or at least the ones that helped me (for what it’s worth, I was most helped by reading books about losing family members such as a spouse or a child – not pet loss books specifically, though those can be helpful too), conceptualize successful grieving as forging a new relationship with the deceased, one that exists in the absence of his or her physical presence. This spoke to me intuitively. It felt true. When Alec was sick I told him (and myself) repeatedly that our bond could not be broken, that we would stay connected forever and always. I don’t logically know how that could be, but as I am fond of saying, there was a time when we thought we’d fall off the edge of the world and get eaten by sea monsters if we sailed too far out into the great blue ocean. The point being we just don’t know everything. So I don’t have to know how it works to decide to believe in something.

Mythical sea monsters notwithstanding, grief can lead to some interesting places. People will talk about needy dogs finding them when they thought they weren’t ready to adopt, and things like that. My colleague Tom had a stray dog run in front of his car on the highway exit ramp not long after his beloved dog Cassie had died at seven years old – even younger than Alec. He and his wife adopted that lucky dog, who seemed to know exactly which car to hurl himself in front of to ensure the best possible outcome. That didn’t happen to me, but a synchronistic series of events led me to learning about a little German shepherd named Teagan, who had survived horrific abuse at the hands of what many would deem a real monster (as opposed to the mythical sea ones), the type of depraved people ALDF’s Criminal Justice Program staff (god bless them) have to hear about every single day.

Teagan immediately after her rescue
Teagan was shot at close range and left for dead in Mississippi. When she was found she was gravely injured, starving, and riddled with parasites. Her front leg was trapped in her collar up to the armpit. With every painful step, the collar cut deeper into her flesh; when she was found, the gash went almost to the bone. Someone most likely deliberately looped her leg through her collar, and then held her down to shoot her. They were probably trying to hit her heart, but they missed. The bullet traveled up her throat and through her jaw, smashing several teeth along the way, before it exited out her eye, which was destroyed and had to be removed. In addition to the gunshot related trauma, she showed obvious signs of neglect. Her legs were crooked and bent, most likely from being kept in a crate that was too small, and her skin was flaking off. Upon rescue, she was severely emaciated and weighed only 15 lbs. Now at a healthy weight of 39 lbs. she is still tiny for a German shepherd. Vets theorized that her growth may have been stunted from early malnutrition and neglect.

Unfortunately, whoever did this to Teagan, a sweet gentle dog who despite everything still loves and trusts people, will never be found. But Teagan was lucky to be found by an animal lover. Although this person could not care for her, and local shelters were reluctant to take her because of the extent of her injuries, little Teagan got lucky for the second time when Janice Wolf of Rocky Ridge Refuge in Arkansas agreed to take her and start the emotional and expensive journey of saving the dog whose life someone tried to extinguish with a bullet.

It was a long road to recovery, and Teagan was at Rocky Ridge Refuge for a year and a half. But now she is healthy and ready for adoption. Oh, did I mention I am adopting her? Yup, me…the same person who swore she would never want another dog after losing Alec. But as it sometimes happens, when I heard Teagan’s story and saw her picture, I just knew: yes, I would adopt this dog. There was no hesitation. I would give her the best home she could ever want. Significantly for me, I know Alec would have loved her.

Teagan playing in the snow

I was supposed to adopt Teagan last October, but a few days before she was to make the trip from Arkansas to Oregon, she became deathly ill with a resistant infection that stumped the veterinarians. She received different medications and began to recover but no one is sure what was wrong with her. It could be that something was carried in with the bullet, fragments of which still remain inside her body because they could not all be removed. I waited eight months for her to be deemed healthy enough to be adopted and that has day finally arrived…almost! As I type this, Teagan is riding in a special transport van through California on her way to me in Portland, Ore. She was picked up in Arkansas on Saturday and has been traveling across the country for the last five days. She is supposed to arrive tomorrow morning and I could not be more excited to finally meet her!

Because of everything Teagan has been through, and all that I have recently lost, I know people are worried about me. My dad cryptically says only: “good luck.” A colleague said she hopes I don’t get my heart broken. What I didn’t tell her was that my heart is already broken. It broke forever when Alec died. But maybe being broken is not a bad thing. Maybe being broken creates cracks that need to be filled, spaces for more love to seep in. Love that would never have found its way to you had you remained whole, had you not suffered. Another thing I knew (as in, hello…obvious!) but had not experienced firsthand was that we never know how much time we have with our loved ones. Not only that, but we cannot know how long we will be here ourselves. One of my grief books said something that I found interesting. It said that while we may pine for the past and grieve for a future without our loved one in it, the truth is we don’t even know if we will be around for these imagined future events. So true! Today is all we have. And if all I have is one day with Teagan, I am going to try my hardest to make it the very best day of her life. I want every day to be wonderful for her. That’s what Alec did for me. I would like to share that. His presence filled my days with joy and happiness. Loving him made ordinary moments transcendent. Alec showed me the fathomless depth of love I was capable of, a love that strikes me dumb in its enormity, even now as I contemplate it. What a shame if I closed down and never shared my love again. As with compassion, we don’t have finite amounts of love, and Alec left me with so much of it. I love Alec still, so much. Even after his death, my love for him has changed and grown in ways I never could have predicted. He is still very much a part of my world; he is woven into the tapestry of my thoughts and feelings, of my deepest hopes and wishes. He will be there with me and Teagan. I don’t know how I know this. I just know there will be three of us.

It is frustrating to know there are so many animals out there who need homes; all are deserving, whether they have been abused or not. But although I cannot save them all, I can definitely make a big difference in one animal’s life, even as Alec still profoundly influences mine. My relationship with him keeps changing, keeps evolving, and a new chapter is about to begin. Teagan and I start our new lives together tomorrow. And it is going to be a very good day.

Posted in ALDF Blog


  1. Posted by susan on July 20th, 2011

    Beautifully written, Nicole. Thanks so much for sharing, and may you and Tegan have many happy years together.

  2. Posted by Elaine P on July 20th, 2011

    Brought a tear to my eye here at work… Please write again and keep us posted about your new adventures with Teagan.

  3. Posted by J. Biondo on July 20th, 2011

    I read your story and it brought tears to my eyes. I am an avid animal lover and I too lost the love of my life, CJ, last summer to feline leukemia. CJ was 3 when he passed away. His death effected me in ways I could never imagine. People would say to me, “It was a cat, stop it”. To me, CJ was not just a cat, he was my child, my best friend and my life. When CJ was diagnosed with Feline Leukemia when he was 6 weeks old, the Vet told me I should euthanize him immediately. I said NO WAY! Right now he is a healthy little kitten and I have hope that he will fight this horrific disease. The Vet then told me that CJ would have a life span of a maximum of two years and on some occasions, maybe longer, which was rare. I chose to walk out of the Vet that day making the best decision of my life because God gave me a blessing that day. CJ lived for 3 years, and 1 and 1/2 months with me and my fiance until he passed on July 11, 2010. I never cried so hard in my life and still cry until this day. He was very special. He was an angel and I truly believe that. I took care of him to the best of my ability. I wouldn’t let anyone touch him in fear of germs with a compromised immune system. The day he passed I felt my heart sink. I never cried like that before in my life and today my heart still remains broken. I think of him always. All day, every day. Sleeping without him is sometimes still very hard. We slept together EVERY NIGHT…with him on my pillow with his neck buried in mine. We had a special bond. A few weeks after he passed, my fiance and I adopted a kitten, I can say, adopting helped with my grief because I knew 1) CJ would have adored her, 2) the kitten helped me to cope with my grief and 3) I was giving a kitten a home who needed one. I took solace in that. Adopting does help with the grieving period but NEVER replaces your lost friend. Thank you for sharing your story. I am glad that you were also blessed with a forever friend.

  4. Posted by SP on July 20th, 2011

    I know exactly how you felt when you lost your beloved Alec. I’ve experienced this several times throughout my life with much loved dogs who have come and gone as time marches on, but none more so than my little mini doxie, Bourbon. All of my pets (dogs and kitties alike) were and are loved and cherished deeply but Bourbon held a special place. He was my constant, my “Bourb” and I loved him more than I thought possible. When I lost him suddenly in 2006 I felt all the same things you did. Reading your story was like reading about myself. Bourb’s death came just a few months after a painful divorce so losing my “constant”, my beloved, wonderful little dog and friend was beyond devastating. I was quite lost, like you, and didn’t know what to do with myself. Unlike you though, I’ve always been a multi-pet household, so I had other furbabies to comfort me as best they could. It still didn’t mend my shattered heart that still aches for my little Bourb from time to time. I suspect it always will. What you did for your beloved Alec was amazing. He was truly blessed to have you as well as you were him. Good Luck with your new friend, Teagan. She looks like a beautiful spirit!

  5. Posted by Janice Wolf on July 20th, 2011


  6. Posted by Dawn D on July 20th, 2011

    I love this so much! It definitely made me cry as I can totally relate to the author’s grief, sorrow, love, loyalty, and compassion. I lost two of my most beloved companions almost 2 years ago this September and the grief I felt was insurmountable, surreal and life changing. I am still heartbroken. Since then, I have adopted two more dogs that were in life or death situations and needed to be rescued immediately. With so many out there in these same circumstances, somehow these were the two that crossed my path and came into my life, and they most certainly rescued me as well. I still mourn for my babies (16 yr. old German Shepherd, Sheba & 14 yr old Pittie mix, Fats), as they were truly my soul mates – and like the author states – they are still with me and have taught me so much more about love, faithfulness and loyalty. Her statement “…being broken creates cracks that need to be filled, spaces for more love to seep in. Love that would never have found its way to you had you remained whole, had you not suffered.” Is so true, as I love my dear Sasha and Delilah, and I am so glad that I was able to provide a loving home for two beautiful souls that deserve so much!

  7. Posted by Dee VH on July 20th, 2011

    I felt the same way when my first cat died, I thought my world ended. I vowed to never have another cat ever. My Mother told me that it was selfish of me, when there were so many other cats out there who needed a loving home. Needless to say that now between my Mother & myself we have 23 cats!

  8. Posted by Dogsense Boutique on July 20th, 2011

    Beautifuly said, i know the depts of your love and pain and wish you and your new friend all the very best.

  9. Posted by Carole Walters on July 20th, 2011

    As I sit here crying my eyes out, I must say that I can relate to what you are going thru. Being a woman who was never able to have children, I replaced the void in my life with dogs. They filled the empty house with joy and made my life complete. After the loss of each one, I would grieve deeply, fill the house with their pictures, so as to keep them close to me, and get another precious life to love & cherish. It is devastating to lose each one, as they are my “children”, but they will always be with me in my heart. The love that they have given me is beyond anything that money could ever buy, and the memories that I have are priceless gems in the crown of my life. If I were a wealthy woman, I would adopt as many dogs as I could, but unfortunately, I can only afford two at the moment. Two of the most precious beings on this earth, as far as I’m concerned. We share every aspect of life, and I cherish every day that we have together, for I know that their time here on earth is much too short. Give thanks for the time that you have with them, and know that you gave Alex the best life possible and as much love as you had to give. It doesn’t take away the pain of losing them, but eventually that excruciating pain becomes just a dull ache, and eventually you will be able to think of him with a smile instead of a tear.

  10. Posted by Jane on July 20th, 2011

    Thank you for sharing b/c all those emotions I have felt on some level. My dog Jake was just diagnosed w/ hemangiosarcoma and every second of my day is thinking about Jake. I haven’t stopped crying since Friday nor do I sleep. I am always looking at Jake seeing if he’s ok…is he eating, drinking, breathing. His life since I got him as a pup has been flashing through my brain. This situation I call an “elephant” nobody wants to talk about it. It is extremely hard and I am just taking one day at a time 😦

  11. Posted by Maira on July 20th, 2011

    Teagan is lucky! And you are a great women! Wish all the best for u 2!!

  12. Posted by Terri Abplanalp on July 20th, 2011

    I made the mistake of reading this at work and I KNEW I shouldn’t ;(…I have lost dogs to illness and to cancer, and I have to say that I can relate on every level…to say it is heartbreaking is to inadequately describe the sense of loss and pain…but you are so right about the capacity to love being so great, and there being so many dogs out there deserving of it. Your blog is beautifully written and really captures so much of what is in my heart. I thank both you and Janice for your unwavering belief in beautiful Teagan. Janice is a goddess in my mind and I know that Teagan now has someone equally as great to spoil her and love her FOREVER….not just in “this” life, but forever.

  13. Posted by Juana Molina Sage on July 20th, 2011

    I truly can say I know exactly what you have gone through and how you felt and feel now. It was almost as tho you were telling my story. I lost my Saint Bernard this past March to cancer just 3 months after her getting the bloat which with the surgery had made it through. We also thought we had more time and thanked God for letting her stay with us, then just 3 months later the bone cancer took her away so fast I didn’t even have time to come to terms with her even having the cancer and she was gone. I do know the love and bond that is at the heart and it doesn’t stop just because life does. They do truly take our hearts to levels we never knew were there. i too adopted another Saint Bernard, i told Lily if there was another baby out there who needed us just like she did to send that baby to me, and low and behold another Saint needed rescuing. You have been truly blessed with your 4 legged babies and so have I . ❤

  14. Posted by nancy on July 20th, 2011

    I’ve been down that road too. My first dog I had for 18 years before I had to put her down. She was my furry soulmate! Keep us posted with all your new found adventures with Teegan.

  15. Posted by Mary on July 21st, 2011

    What a beautiful story, it brought tears to my eyes ! Yes, there are monsters who will do evil things to animals (I hope karma AND the law gets them) but there are also people like you, Nicole, this is why many of these precious creatures still trust humans after all they have been through. I hope you will write more & let us know what happens with Teagan.

  16. Posted by Sarah Luick on July 21st, 2011

    Who among us who have had a special dog in their life (mine was “Saint” Rex), are not touched by your remembrances of your connections with Alec, and the pure love and devotion you gave to the relationship. I hope you have met Teagan by now. What a lucky doggie life awaits her. The rescue group must feel blessed you came to help Teagan. And, as you know, Alec will be in your heart as you enter your relationship with Teagan. Your blog says so much about what is good about human animals – guiding principles that you and your colleagues at ALDF all possess in abundance.

  17. Posted by Reagan on July 21st, 2011

    YAY. Can’t wait to follow this new chapter of your life!!

  18. Posted by Karol on July 21st, 2011

    Nicole, you are a hero. I can only imagine how your heart broke at losing your beloved German Shepard. Sometimes the only way to fill the hole in your heart is by getting another dog. Bless you, you wonderful girl.

  19. Posted by Stephanie Atwood on July 21st, 2011

    Thank you, thank you for sharing this beautiful story. I am so happy for the place that you are now – still with Alec, an sharing your heart again with someone who can really use some love. I cried through this whole post, and my own little family of 3 rescue terriers snuggled up and kissed my tears away. This is a story I will forever remember.

  20. Posted by Jeanette Holmgren on July 22nd, 2011

    That was so heartbreaking and yet so wonderful. I know what it is like to loose a loved one and having to learn to live with the pain, loss, sorrow and deep wounds in ones heart. And yet we can’t stop being alive, because there are so many innocent souls out there who need our help. Even though a few animals get loving homes and a better life, I still can’t stop feeling sad because they even had to go through it at all. All people who help and adopt dogs in need are such wonderful humans. May the two of you have a long and happy life together.

  21. Posted by Patricia on July 22nd, 2011

    It is so wonderful to know there are people in the world like you Nicole. My beautiful sweet “Buddy” was murdered in May and the unbelievable hurt and anger is with me still every day. After being shot, he drug his poor body home before he finally lost his battle,after surgery to try to prepare the damage. I have had many animals that I’ve recused and have lost to old age, but this horrific act is with me every day and I know the anger for the person who took Buddy’s life will never go away. I lost my 16 yr old shihtzu Rhett 2 weeks later. Rhett’s sister Scarlett was diagnosed with Vestibular disease a month later..a middle ear infection that has devastating side effects…I have a pet cemetery in my back yard and believe that they all will be there to greet me on the “other side”. I love what you said about the cracks in the broken heart being there so more love can enter..I will never stop welcoming those precious angels into my life no matter how many times my heart has to break…and now I feel better knowing that there is even more room now for more love for another…Thank you Nicole

  22. Posted by Joanne on July 22nd, 2011

    Thanks so much for sharing this story. I, too, am facing a devastating tragedy….at the hands of a Vet. She overdosed my dog with anesthesia and spent the next two weeks being syringe fed and couldn’t swallow. I had to let him go with whatever dignity he had left. Your story, your grief, everything you said struck a chord with me. Losing a special needs pet is one of the hardest things to go thru. I applaud you for having the courage and love to continue on and help another animal. I hope someday I can do the same…right now the pain is unbearable.

  23. Posted by Victoria on July 22nd, 2011

    Thank you for sharing your story. I can identify with it for I lost my beloved doxie. Very unexpected, I asked God to take me with him. Depressed , house bound etc. I don’t think that I will ever recover completely. Since then I have rescued two more doxie, and love them dearly, but…..I am still waiting to be with my Scooter.

  24. Posted by vickie on July 24th, 2011

    I know how you feel …grieving takes awhile to go through all the steps…you worked your way out…I had to keep going because I had many more animals to care for…I hope your new dog spends the best days of his life with you..Take comfort in that….

  25. Posted by S.K. on July 25th, 2011

    Absolutely beautiful story…thank you so very much for sharing it!! In addition to the love you possess, I am in awe of your lyrical writing ability. Spellbinding use of words. Your story truly brought tears to my eyes.

  26. Posted by Tom on July 27th, 2011

    Beautiful blog Nicole. Absolutely beautiful.

  27. Posted by Carla (Sage) Benoist on August 10th, 2011

    Very beautiful blog entry Nicole. My heart is .. nourished by the beautiful way that you loved and love Alec and by the breadth of understanding you gained through loving him and since you lost his physical presence. Really rings so true to me — thank you for sharing! I’ve been adopting and sharing my life with Greyhounds for many years, having adopted my first Greyhound, Harley Stardancer in part as a companion to my little German Shepherd, Joanna Darkwind. He saved her life and remade my life and consciousness and together they will always be my heart and soul, for eternity. I have found that a new adoption never, ever replaces the ones who have gone before — rather it’s a tribute to those who are with you in spirit. I think that sharing your life with Teagan is a perfect, wonderful tribute to Alec and exactly the right step as you continue to love and grow. I will look forward to hearing about your journey. Walk in Beauty, both of you. Blessings!

  28. Posted by Linda MacDonald Glenn on August 23rd, 2011

    I have felt that same grief that you have, Nicole — like walking around with huge hole in your heart, and feeling like you will never ever recover from this. I couldn’t imagine life without Oscar. Like you, eventually I found the emotional room to adopt a few rescues. Although there is and always will be a special place in my heart for my first four-legged furry ‘child’, the ones that have followed have given me great joy — and contributed significantly to meaning & purpose in my life. Thank you for sharing this…and bless your generous soul.

  29. Posted by Linda MacDonald Glenn on August 23rd, 2011

    I have felt that same grief that you have, Nicole — like walking around with huge hole in your heart, and feeling like you will never ever recover from this. I couldn’t imagine life without Oscar. Like you, eventually I found the emotional room to adopt a few rescues. Although there is and always will be a special place in my heart for my first four-legged furry ‘child’, the ones that have followed have given me great joy — and contributed significantly to meaning & purpose in my life. Thank you for sharing this…and bless your generous soul.

  30. Posted by Steven on August 23rd, 2011

    Hi Nicole, You are awesome. Live long and prosper!! Steven

  31. Posted by Lisa Levesque on August 23rd, 2011

    In June of 2009, I lost the love of my life ~ Emma. Emma was a beautiful mantle marked Great Dane, and she was my life. I still recall the day I brought her to meet my parents, and my Mom answered the door. I was holding my 9 week old bundle of 21 pounds on my hip toddler style, and my Mom exclaimed, “You could not be glowing any more, if you have given birth to that puppy yourself!” I absolutely adored her, every thing was about her, for her, and no decision was made without thought to Emma’s wishes. I had Emma’s love for 9 years, and the final year we battled her Lymphoma. Her oncologist told me that we amy win many battles, but the gfinal one would be lost…one year was what we likely had. Emma did very well on chemo…never a sick day…, and she seemed almost to revert back to a young puppy. Every day was about quality of life, so I monitored her very carefully. When she came out of remission after about 8 1/2 months on chemo, the oncologist told me that we had 3 months at best. I had a hard time getting my head around the reality that my most precious gift was going away far too soon. We had only 10 short weeks and I had to let her go. I sat on the floor with her lying in my lap, and I felt her heart beat its last. Truth be told, if I could ahve willed myself to die at that moment I would have gladly, as I could not imagine life without her. I still miss her every day, and at times I feel as if her spirit is paying me a visit (I know some might frown on that, but I believe it is so). Emma will always be in my heart.

  32. Posted by diane lindsay on August 23rd, 2011

    Thank you so much!

  33. Posted by Pat Bryan, Southern Pines on August 23rd, 2011

    I am so glad you have found another animal that needs you. You obviously have a great deal of love to give. I have lost so many, but I honor them by getting another abused or abandoned animal from a shelter and giving it a good home. It is not called “replacing,” as one cannot replace a beloved pet. That’s why I call it “honoring,” because I think that’s what the pet I lost would want me to do.

  34. Posted by Janet in Cambridge on August 23rd, 2011

    It is quite a common response to vow never to have another animal again. Fortunately for us animal lovers, it’s also virtually impossible to live without a companion. I’m so glad you were able to see that Teagan needed you. That allowed you to help her and help yourself. The heart has so much room for love that we can share that love many creatures in our lives. Loving a new creature does not diminish the love you had for any other creature in your life. It only adds. For me, the joy comes from being able to think back on how wonderful my companions were, how they made me laugh, how they got me through all the tough times, how good their lives were, how much I was able to love them, and I smile. I would never have not wanted them in my life to avoid the pain of losing them. “Grief is the price we pay for love.”

  35. Posted by jenny on August 23rd, 2011

    you have just described the way i was feeling when i lost one of my greyhounds back in may. i was heart broken i sobbed and sobbed i still miss her i always will. its so upsetting

  36. Posted by Maria on August 23rd, 2011

    Thank you Nicole for writing this… you can see you’ve touched many people with your story. I am about to enter into the most devastating time I can imagine. Soon, I’ll have to let the love of my life, Ellie, go and I cannot imagine what my life will be, without her here with me. Your words give me hope as I’m about to enter a time of no hope. I will try to remember your thoughts and experiences during this devastating time soon to come. Thank you again for sharing this with all of us. I’ll be thinking of you and Teagan;-)

  37. Posted by Melinda Shaw on August 23rd, 2011

    Please keep us posted about Teagan. I certainly empathize with Nicole about the loss of her sweet boy. I really wanted to die when my Lab died precipitously from hemolytic anemia: we couldn’t figure out why she got it and we couldn’t control it. The grief never really leaves. Bless you for giving your heart to your new girl.

  38. Posted by lyn on August 23rd, 2011

    Thank you for your sharing your story, I couldn’t stop crying. I too lost a very special dog Jack a couple of years ago and to this day I still choke up. I have other animals, all very special and loved, however Jack was just my little pal/ Than after about 6 mos. I went onto a website to virtually foster dogs. And there they were with a BIG captioned heading ABOUT TO DIE. A breeder in Missouri had just dropped off to the local shelter a litter of puppies and the mama because the market had dropped off. And the shelter was about to euthanize them. Well to make a long story short. I called the shelter and started the adoption proceedings and not a moment too soon. The little mama was to be euthanized the next day. It took me about 3 months to finally get her because she was halfway across the country. She has been a great addition to my family and is really coming out of shy shell ( she lived in a cage all of her life.)I know that my Jack would have liked her and is happy we are helping another dog out of a sad situation as we did with him.And she has helped me, she makes me laugh again. I won’t say good luck. Because it sounds negative. I will say I hope you have a great life with your new companion Teagen and you are an inspiration to us all.

  39. Posted by Kerin McCurdy on August 23rd, 2011

    I am so sorry for your loss!!! I have a Shepard, Lab mix named Elmer and he is my soul mate, angel, and best friend too. Your article was written so beautifully, I cried the whole way through. Please remember that your Alec will always be with you in your heart and in the many wonderful memories you made together, never forget that!!! God Bless you both.

  40. Posted by KIM HARKIN on August 23rd, 2011

    WOW…..God has graced you with another german shepard to love and you have opened your heart to receive her…..I dont know whether to cry happy tears or do the happy dance. God bless you journey together. I started fostering this year….3 dogs and 2 kittens so far. The MOST important work I have ever done….(Although I was the Tax Director, CPA for a billion dollar SEC company…..never a fulfilling as my new job!) Best of luck to you. You are an amazing woman!

  41. Posted by Sandra Guillot on August 23rd, 2011

    That was a beautiful story and well written. I had lost a cat that I had since a kitten, so I know how you felt. God bless you both. Sandy

  42. Posted by Lori on August 24th, 2011

    I followed Teagan’s story at Rocky Ridge! So happy to learn who the person is that’s adopting her 🙂

  43. Posted by M. Gail Laub on August 24th, 2011

    Your story is the first I’ve ever read that echoed so completely my heartache, grief, and utter sense of loss when my beloved cat died after struggling with a brain tumor for 8 months. My life was so wrapped up with taking care of her that after she died I was lost as to what to do with the evening when I came home from work. Weekends were horrible. I was heart broken and hollow, and had no one who understood my grief. “How can you be so upset about a cat?” Enduring your anguish in silence to avoid ridicule is a crushing extra burden. How can you explain? For all of our 13 years together, Faux Pas’s nightly ritual was to step her front feet up onto my left thigh and then turn around and lie down with her body practically fused to my leg. Looking into her eyes, you saw intelligence almost human. She helped me raise my son, showing him that animals understand an apology for an inadvertent tread on a tail or foot, how to think of the welfare and happiness of others besides yourself, and the wonderful rewards of accepting an animal into your life because of its needs, not your own convenience. She was brought to me as a tiny kitten covered in tar and fleas, with raw footpads from walking on hot pavement. “Thanks a lot!” I told my “friends.” I had just taken in a cat two weeks before, an absolutely beautiful one that had been abandoned by her divorcing owners when they left. This kitten could not have compared more unfavorably. I had never seen a homelier or more aggravating animal. I named her Faux Pas because she was certainly someone’s big mistake. It took weeks to trim the tar off of her as her fur grew out and she was destructive enough for ten kittens. She shredded my living room sheers and ate my plants (no poisonous ones in the house) and was just generally a pain in the neck. I tried to find another home for her several times but the prospective takers would take one look at her and say she was not exactly what they had in mind. Thank goodness! By the time I’d had her a year, I was shocked to realize I wouldn’t have given her up for a million dollars. It’s been twenty years since she died but her name is part of my email address. She’ll never be just a memory. I’ve always had pets since then, some who were endearing in their own way and others that I loved just because I love animals. I’ve never gone out and chosen a pet…..they find me. There must be a sign in my yard, visible only to cats, that says, “If you’re lost, sick, or injured, and especially if you need some really expensive vet care, come to this lady’s house.” I can’t say no when I’m sure I’m probably their only hope of rescue. I still had a fractured heart though. Then three years ago I found another tiny kitten, so young she thinks I’m her mother. I adore this precious cat that talks to me all the time and thinks she belongs wherever I am. She moved into my heart lock, stock, and barrel without usurping anyone else’s place. The wonderful thing about love is that it can expand to encircle the new without replacing the old.

  44. Posted by Judy on August 24th, 2011

    I just read your story yesterday on the ALDF e-letter. It really is a heartwarming story, although it did bring tears to my eyes. I remember reading about Teagan a few months back when her story first came to light. I couldn’t believe what I was reading—-the savage cruelty to an innocent animal. I don’t think Teagan could have found a better forever home. My current and last two rescues were wrecks of animals. Belle, my current furkid, and the last two are perpetually at the vet. One time, when I was waiting to see the vet, the one tech said to me “God knows who to send the sick and broken ones to.” Looking back at all the furkids we’ve been guardians to, and reading your story, the only thing I can say is there is a lot of truth in that statement.

  45. Posted by Dominick on August 24th, 2011

    Hi Nicole…Thanks for sharing your story..all I want to say is it takes a special person to do all you did for Alec..Teagan is a lucky dog to have you..would love to be able to read how Teagan does!

  46. Posted by Lee Ann on August 25th, 2011

    So beautifully written. I too believe, that all of the “souls” that have left before us are always with us. Their lessons are forever ingrained in our lives. Let Alec guide you and I have no doubt you and Teagan will continue his courageous & loving legacy. Bless you all ! Keep us posted on your new “love”. It goes without saying – treasure it, for their lives are so short. You are so fortunate to have found each other !

  47. Posted by Jane Kyser on August 25th, 2011

    Thank you for articulating the feelings we share so beautifully. I truly believe that the spirit in Alec’s form will always be with you. Cherish the memories you create everyday…..

  48. Posted by Sharyn Shubert on August 25th, 2011

    I have been exactly where you have been and are. You are blessed to have such wonderful dog friends in your life. Enjoy every moment, for they are all precious. Bless you for saving another dog in need. Alex would surely approve.

  49. Posted by Stefani Olsen on August 25th, 2011

    Thank you for your very beautiful article. Many people don’t understand that an animal can truly be the love of our lives, but I do know, because my Toonces was the love of mine. After a negligent vet left him with his son who overdosed my cat with insulin, he was left brain damaged. I tried hard to nurse him back, hoping his brain would regrow neurons. But he only got so far. It was the most heartbreaking experience of my life, and it made me realize how many veterinarians really are callous and also opened my eyes to animal cruelty in so many ways. I did a website to tell his story ( I too have tried to figure out how to continue our relationship. He is a daily inspiration to me, and my love for him has taught me what is really important.

  50. Posted by Janice on August 26th, 2011

    What a beautiful tribute to Alec and that the love you had for him was so massive you were able to channel that overflow for Teagan and show her love as it should be shown to all precious furbabies..i see her smiling in that picture with her one eye..I am so glad you and Alec’s spirit found her…All of my furbabies that have passed on remain in my heart and will be there til i take my last breath..

  51. Posted by SusanD on August 27th, 2011

    Wow. This is the very first article I have ever read that truly reflects the depth of grief that I felt when the love of my life, my feline soulmate, my beloved cat, Champy, passed away at age 16 over fourteen years ago. I heard the usual cliches, “he’s at the Bridge,” “it was his time,” “you’ll get over it” — I never did, never will. Fourteen years. Yesterday. An eternity. In the blink of an eye, he went from a tiny, abandoned, sickly bundle of bones and fur to a beautiful specimen of feline physical perfection to an elderly gentleman with multiple health issues. I thought he would be okay, he had to be, it was unthinkable that he could leave without me one day. That horrible day came on April 14, 1997, when he passed away at the local Veterinary Emergency Clinic. Four days later, his lifelong kitty companion, Brandy, also passed away. Although her kidneys were failing, we believe she sensed that something terrible had happened to her dear friend and didn’t want to live without him, either, so abruptly followed him. Without the support of my special husband, family and friends, I don’t believe I could have survived this long. Although we have three cats now, two wonderful shelter rescues and a beautiful black cat rescued from the now-closed St. Louis pound and who is my pride and joy, my beloved Champy was, is and always will be, the one and only love of my life. Bless Alec. His story will continue to inspire and help others cope with devastating loss.

  52. Posted by Rhonda Hodgman on August 30th, 2011

    So heartwretching beautiful … tears well as I look at all the urns of my beloved furrbabies sitting by their pictures and collars on the wall unit … I still cry and it has been almost 12 years since the first. It seems I can’t stop tho, tonight I am picking up another throwaway that I re-homed almost a year ago, he just isn’t working out for the family and I need to work with him, don’t know if he’ll be re-homed or stay…one day at a time. I also feel your grief and anxiety regarding an animal with cancer, my beautiful girl, Mescal, was diagnosed with Hemangiosarcoma in 1/10, she is still with me and fighting, we fight together as I was diagnosed with colon cancer in 10/10. We will never stop loving even tho it hurts so bad sometimes.

  53. Posted by Hank on September 4th, 2011

    Enjoy your new friend. She is lucky to have you and you her. It is a sad world, but I keep the faith. May God forgive those who are cruel in this world. Bless!

  54. Posted by Ulla on September 5th, 2011

    Bless you – BEAUTIFUL! People like you shines like stars of hope in the dark night of horror. I wish you the best of luck with Teagan. She will give back to you tenfold for all that you give her – as Alec did. The animals are the true masters of showing us humans what´s really important in life. Your empathy and grand heart is a signpost for us all.

  55. Posted by linden method review on September 18th, 2011

    Sad to hear that your dog died and how painful life was after that. It’s not always easy to lose a pet that was everything for you for long.

  56. Posted by Stephanie on September 28th, 2011

    Nicole, your story brought me to tears but at the same time it inspired me…Alec was a beautiful dog and I know exactly what you are saying in your blog…our animals are our children and the unconditional love is what makes it that way…Your pain is felt with the loss of your pretty boy Alec but knowing that Teagan has a loving mommy such as yourself she is a lucky girl…My oldest dog Abby is 13 and may possibly be facing liver problems and/or gall bladder cancer…I have spent a lot of my money on keeping her as healthy as possible with liver meds and prescription food for her bladder stones…when I was told that she may have gall bladder cancer I asked “how will I know when she is dying” and my vet said that her eyes will turn yellow and she will not eat right and start losing weight…as you are, I am a big animal lover and my beloved Abby is still with us but the day she leaves me I will be tore up for a long time as you were with Alec…I am hoping this is a misdiagnosis but its no guarantee…you have inspired me and just know that your feelings for Alec are genuinely felt by me cause I feel the same for my Abby…she is a min. schnauzer and I have had her since she was 7 wks old..I just dont think I can bear to lose her…I am trying to prepare myself but I dont think it will totally prepare me for the day I will never see her again…I have decided to have her cremated when she does die so that I can have her with me forever…Bless your heart and enjoy your baby girl Teagan…I hope she brings you joy as I am sure she will…if you have any tips for me on healing from a beloved pets death please friend me on facebook at stephaniedeoperehouston or email me….Love and Hugs, Stephanie

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Filed under Grief and loss, Teagan

Cookies from heaven?

Something kind of weird happened the other day. I was hanging up a skirt in my closet when one of Ali’s cookies fell onto the floor. I was shocked as I always am by some unexpected reminder of my former life, a life where my pockets were always full of dog biscuits and little crumbs, but instead of crying my immediate reaction was puzzlement. I couldn’t figure out where it had dropped from. I probably looked pretty comical standing there with my mouth hanging open looking around the closet. The skirt had no pockets, and the other skirt sharing its hanger I had not worn in a long time and could not remember ever having worn to walk Ali, though it’s possible. But I also have moved twice since Alec died, both times leaving my clothes on hangers and tossing them haphazardly into the back of my van, so I would think even if I had a cookie in there it would have shaken loose by now. Plus I didn’t even really touch it, the other skirt with the pockets I mean, so even if there was something wedged in there I don’t see how it came loose just then. I didn’t think I had touched anything, other than lightly draping my little stretchy skirt over the hanger. And nothing else on the nearby hangers had pockets. It was just bizarre.

Wherever it dropped from, it made me smile, and I picked it up and put it on the table next to my magic words collage. But even weirder, when I went back into the closet later that afternoon a second cookie appeared on the floor. Very strange! I left this one where it was (it’s still on the floor in there) and took a photo of it.

Mystery cookie

Something else that made me smile this week (see, my posts aren’t always super duper depressing!) was this card I came across in the grocery store. So I plunked down five dollars and bought it for myself. I really like it. I also propped it up next to my Ali collage.

I love you Ali.


Filed under Grief and loss, LOVE, Love after death

The light.

Dear Alec,

In some ways, everything reminds me of you. I remember driving home one Saturday afternoon a couple months ago and the sunlight filtering through the trees was so gorgeous that it punched me in the gut with how much I missed you, and I started crying. I know, that sounds like a John Denver song. When you were here, sunshine didn’t make me cry. But things are different now. The point is sad things, happy things, unrelated things, relevant things…all remind me of you. Sometimes more starkly than others but it is always there. You are always there. And on that drive I guarantee you were already on my mind, but the golden sunlight triggered a flood of emotions. I don’t know why. I just kept thinking how beautiful it was, and that thought led me directly to you.

The sun: formerly non tear-inducing phenomenon.

Beautiful things, sad things. You are everywhere, in my air, my breath, tangled in my hair and in my dreams at night. Sometimes I picture you walking next to me. You don’t limp anymore. You’re like you were when your body worked perfectly. I don’t need to look at pictures. I can see you. I mean, I pretend.

The way I miss you reminds me of the way I heard grief conceptualized once that stuck with me. It was grief as music: sometimes a symphony and other times background music, but always playing. This metaphor is akin to acute and subtle grief (intense distress vs. the relative calm moments in between). So it is with these reminders. It’s like I’m always thinking of you in the back of my mind. Sometimes it just overpowers me more than at other times. I have also heard grief described as an ocean with waves of different sizes, ebbing and flowing, changing but always there. In and out. Beauty and sadness. Life and death. Love and loss. Me and you.

Everything I say is you in parentheses. I don’t know what that means. But I wrote it down a while ago and it felt true.

When daylight savings time happened in March, I became (more) depressed (than usual). It took me a minute to recognize that the longer days had triggered this more pronounced sense of melancholy. This is when we were supposed to start swimming again after work. The longer days signified all the things I had looked forward to doing with you, but never would again. Triggers come from the strangest places (daylight savings time? this is what throws me over the edge?), but they aren’t really that strange. Nothing is strange in grief. Because everything is strange, unfamiliar, wrong. I’m so tired of crying. I’m so tired of me without you.

It’s a funny coincidence, just last night I read in one of my books (Grieving Mindfully – highly recommended, especially for people with busy brains who feel everything too deeply, like me) that changes in the length of the days can re-trigger grief. So once again, I find I am not alone in my experiences, as bewildering as they may seem; others have been there before and others will be after. We just don’t always talk about it.

Truthfully, after a brief hopeful period around when I did my “magic words” collage and imagined connecting with you, I have been feeling so depressed. Then I thought about the calendar. This time last year was the happy calm before the storm. No wonder I am anxious and feeling sadder than usual. I know the calendar is an arbitrary timekeeper, but does something inside remind us of what we were doing 365 days ago? Do our cells remember when the light changes? I don’t know. But March of last year was the last time I was truly happy. Everything changed in early April. Then I had a brief, all too brief, period of happiness, of elation in fact, when I got the news that it wasn’t cancer. I would learn in May that was not true. A false diagnosis. The lab results had missed a cancer so aggressive it didn’t need any help taking hold, let alone that six-week head start during which we could have started treatment. A mistake. Oops. This month. One year ago. Everything fell apart. Just a calendar. But the light reminds us when we try to forget.

Alec, it’s funny that the almost overwhelming urge to write to you came over me today, out of the blue. I understand people doing that with dead people, but we never talked, not in words, when you were alive, because well, you’re a dog. So why do I want to write to you, as if you could read? I don’t know. Of course I always wished we could communicate better. I always wished I could perfectly understand you, and you, me. Is that why? Is it that my blog feels unfocused, rambling, too sad, with no audience? Maybe with you as my imaginary audience I can gain some of the focus I lamented losing in the magic words post, one of the many things I lost in the fire of your death. These are called secondary losses, and there were so many that came with losing you. Parts of myself burned away, gone like smoke. Whole pieces of my soul gone missing. Important ones.

That’s all for now. If I have any hope to keep writing, and I feel I must, that it’s important somehow, then I must stop over-editing and second guessing myself and just write, let it be raw and unfocused, at least for now. Perhaps out of chaos will come clarity. I have time to see if that’s true, I suppose. With you gone, sweetie, there is not much else that’s really been pressing.

Theme song for this post is “The Light, pt. 2” by Mason Jennings:

Across the gardens, across the schoolyards
Across the chapels where lovers have leapt
Across the table in our old kitchen
Across the cities where our future slept
It’s the light that’s changing
It’s the light that’s changing
It’s the light that’s changing
It’s only the light


Filed under Grief and loss, Love after death

Of Love and Loopholes.

Grief is big but it is also small. One of the saddest random things: no one to give my kale stems to anymore. Alec was never much of a beggar, but he loved raw kale stalks and every time I took a bunch out of the fridge he would instantly appear in the kitchen doorway with his hopeful and polite begging face. He was never disappointed. One of my favorite sounds: the adorable crunch crunch crunch of Ali contentedly munching on a kale stalk. Sublime. I eat a lot of kale, and his absence tugs at me whenever I start tearing the leaves off the stalks and turn, half forgetting, to find nobody silently standing in the doorway with big brown eyes fixed on me, quietly asking me to share.

After my previous post about the JAVMA article that made me cry at work (don’t get me wrong, I cry a lot, but that was completely uncalled for), I wanted to share a short piece that I liked: “True Love, Loss and the Loophole,” which appeared in Grief Digest Magazine. In this brief essay, grief counselor Ashley Davis Bush uses the Cinderella fairy tale as an analogy for love and loss. Cinderella got her chance to attend the ball but there was a catch, she writes, some fine print: the magic would end at midnight. And as expected, her evening was cut short; it ended in” dashed dreams and a mysterious disappearance.” She asks:

What does this fairy tale have to do with our grief? When we fall in love and make a life with a beloved partner, we enter a similar sort of arrangement. Life is the fairy godmother telling us that there’s a small hitch to this wonderful miracle, that  separation is inevitable. This ‘hitch’ is even built into our marriage vows, “ ‘til death do us part.”

That last sentence is not applicable to partners who are companion animals, um, obviously, but the rest applies — especially knowing that most species of companion animals have shorter life spans than us. Although we don’t take formal vows with our dogs (because they are strictly defined as “property” under the law; despite Gregory M. Morris and the AVMA getting all kerfuffled over the word “guardian,” we in fact have very few legal obligations to them), if we are responsible guardians we make this vow unbidden, and we promise to love them until death parts us (“take care of them” until death parts us may be more accurate because, as the subtitle of my blog implies, love does not end with death. But I digress.).

Death is the bell ringing at midnight, cutting everything short. The reality that one of us will die first is not something that most of us like to dwell on. In fact, we are often shocked when the bell strikes twelve. We might feel cheated, betrayed, ripped off—as if we hadn’t been forewarned. But, inevitably, midnight comes, leaving someone alone on the dance floor, someone struck with the pangs of grief.

Alone on the dance floor. I like this metaphor. And even if we do not consciously think about it, we know we will be separated eventually from the object of our affection, whether through our own death or theirs. With nonhuman animals, given the disparity in our average life spans, the odds are we will be the ones left alone on the dance floor. She then asks:

Here’s a question for you: having experienced the pain of loss, would you have refused the terms of this deal and said, “no thank you”?

Well, my jury is still out on that one, but in light of the inevitability of loss, and the fact that nothing in life is permanent, not even life itself, it is a question worth asking. Especially for people like me, who really aren’t sure if not only the pain of separation, but also the torturous on-ramp leading up to it (pain, sorrow, more pain), were worth it at all. As I sit here wondering if I might be permanently broken, as if some essential part of me has been destroyed or gone missing forever, it is not as easy for me as it seems to be for some people to say “hell yes, it was worth it!” I am only being honest. The alternative — that I had never known Alec, never loved him — is of course also unthinkable. The author, along with most people (in my experience I am almost the only one who hesitates when asked this), comes down squarely on the side of “worth it.” Of course, she is a counselor, what is she going to say? “Don’t ever love again! It is clearly not worth it. Hope you learned your lesson! ” Nah, that would not be a very helpful message I reckon. So, she looks on the bright side:

A choice to avoid pain would seem to be a lonely shadow of life’s fullest potential. So, like Cinderella, we willingly accepted the terms of a curfew because we couldn’t imagine missing the ball. Even a few ‘hours’ of joy were better than sitting home alone—definitely worth the risk of heartbreak.

Maybe so, and maybe not. But her conclusion is my favorite part:

Fortunately, for each of us, not only did we get one beautiful night (so to speak), we also get to live with the blessed loophole that love never dies. To our surprise, we see that even after midnight, the magic continues. Love transcends separation. In other words, death may change the form of our relationship, but it cannot erase the relationship. Our hearts will forever remain full of the good times, full of the open hearted abundance, full of the memories and full of the life-enhancing love.

If you’ve been following this blog, you know she is singing my song. Heck, she practically wrote my song, as her book was one of the first resources that helped me in the beginning, when I was scrambling and grasping for any message of hope, the way a drowning person frantically claws for the surface. And not just any message of hope, but one that felt intuitively right to me. Love transcends separation. Yup, there it was. That was my tune. Still is. I started singing it before he even died. I sang it to both of us during those final days, like a benediction.

So now, as we grieve, as we acknowledge the painful end of the dance, we can turn our attention to the eternal love woven into the fabric of our beings. This love transcends loss in a way that is almost…well…magical. Thank heaven for love and alleluia for the loophole!

A very upbeat ending, and although I am definitely not shouting “alleluia,” I do like this concept of the “loophole.” As with the concept of death changing rather than ending relationships, it gives me something to hold onto. And I am all about the magic because however you define it, my love for Alec felt like some kind of miracle. Something magical indeed. It is kind of hard to describe, but what is this type of love that makes you feel like you could soar from the tops of trees, that your heart could burst, that every hackneyed cliche is true…what is that if not magic? The fact that this indomitable love, which felt like the strongest, most powerful and primal force on earth, the kind of love that lifts cars off people, could not keep him from dying seemed wrong, unfair. It made the magic seem impotent. But maybe there really is a loophole. I think she means it metaphorically but I don’t. There has to be a reason why we feel something so strongly. If true love can’t move mountains, save lives, and most importantly, transcend time and physical dimensions, then what good is it? I am only sort of being facetious. Sometimes my fingers just type these things. But I am inclined to let them have their way because who knows, maybe these unruly fingers have access to an essential truth my left brain – a stern editor – erases when I tap tap tap back and delete some of my more outlandish thoughts. Like the ones about string theory, and how I love that despite my oafish attempts to understand theoretical physics, it is so far over my head that I can use it as frame on which to concoct fantasies of a parallel universe where things turned out differently. In this other universe, Alec and I got our happy ending. We are still together.

It’s like this: all I have left are wishes and fantasy, and I always did have a vivid imagination (unhappily yoked to a hard-nosed skepticism, but imagination is holding its own), and so I am keeping my eyes open for the real loophole. Except in my mind it looks like a little keyhole, and I press my eye up to it, and in my fantasy he is there, on the other side of the door. I just have to find the right key but there is no rush. It will come to me. And then the door will swing open, and we will be together again, at last.

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Filed under Grief and loss, Love after death


Did I act in his best interest? Not according to Gregory M. Dennis and the AVMA.

It’s funny how you can just be going about your day and then something comes along and punches you in the gut. Not that I have been feeling particularly happy lately. Though my mood is not as relentlessly wretched, I have not quite recovered my equilibrium after that post. I have been feeling sad and melancholy of late, just missing him so much. But today I was at work reading an article on pet guardianship vs. ownership from the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association that had landed in my inbox when I got to this paragraph:

Guardianship is a fiduciary relationship—the highest civil relationship owed by one person to another—in which a guardian must always act in the best interest of the ward. If this relationship were applied to animals and their owners, Dennis says any number of legal dilemmas could unfold. In veterinary medicine, for instance, euthanasia could become far more problematic because how can ending an animal’s life be in its best interest? (emphasis added)

And then I started crying. “…because how can ending an animal’s life be in its [sic] best interest?” How? Indeed. The guy who said that is an attorney and not a veterinarian. I can’t imagine a veterinarian saying this; in fact my trusted veterinarian gently but emphatically stated many times that NOT ending Alec’s life would not only not have been in his best interests, but also would have crossed the line into the opposite territory, because he had begun to suffer. And he was never going to get better. OR feel better. Ever again. In all likelihood he would die a painful and frightening death if I did not help him transition (a gentle, spiritual way to put what feels like the worst thing you could ever do: kill your best friend [and even as I type this I know it is wrong. I did not kill him – the cancer did. I helped him die, a tragedy of unimaginable proportions that was happening with or without me]). So I can’t imagine a vet saying the above. Even my dad (not exactly a radical type) would disagree. He often says it is ridiculous that humans don’t have the same right (except in Oregon and Washington) to choose death with dignity.

So I know this, right? And I know it is stupid. But why did tears fill my eyes? Why did I feel as though I had been punched in the gut? I emailed Mike and he told me what I needed to hear. He was there, after all. He saw Alec. He saw him more clearly than me because I didn’t want to let go. I had so much trouble. Again words could never capture my agony in taking that final action (how forced I felt…out of options, out of time), which I only could have found the strength to do if I believed with all my heart it was the most compassionate choice – that there really was no other choice if I truly loved Alec. And I did. I do. So I had to. But for some reason, reading this crushed me. I told Mike I feel like there is always just a thin layer between me and crumbling. He said “there is a thin layer for all of us, especially when you care about another being so much.” I guess that’s true.

It’s funny too because while the decision was the hardest most gut wrenching thing I have ever had to do, it wasn’t something I really questioned. Oh I did beforehand, of course. But I never would have made it if it was not the right choice. No, no, no. I have regretted many things since that day – most of all being put in that position in the first place. But I did not make that choice lightly. I guess it will always haunt me even though it was the right thing. What haunts me is having to say good-bye. Of course I wish I hadn’t. But he was dying, with or without my help. And because it was hard on me was not a reason to not end his life. It was an act of compassion, the last one I could do for him. As I have told so many people in a similar position: a painless death is the last gift you can give them (it was so obvious when I said this to my friends; it’s harder to heed your own advice), but it tore my heart out. And there is still a gaping hole there. The wind blows right through.

So you know what? Screw you, Mr. Dennis, for saying that and making me crumble all over again. I know you said it because you have an agenda, which involves trying to scare people away from the term “guardian” with alarmist hypothetical scenarios (even though it has virtually no legal significance). But you should think before you speak. You are wrong and it is not true. How can ending an animal’s life be in his or her interest? Ask a veterinarian. You should be ashamed of yourself, and the AVMA should be ashamed to have you working for them. I am aware that many people euthanize pets prematurely (or put them to death for trivial reasons involving convenience) and this is a tragedy, but many animals also suffer when their guardians, owners, caretakers — whatever terminology we use — well-meaning though they may be, selfishly make their animal companions hold on because they are unable to let go. I am sure you are aware of this fact, but disregarded it in favor of making a dramatic point. Well, I think you are a jerk for making me cry at work.

You see, that’s why writing can be therapeutic. I just shifted from crumbled to righteous indignation in about ten minutes. I am not a big fan of anger, but at least I stopped crying. Until the next punch in the gut. But that’s the thing about grieving: it’s not easy. And sometimes your emotions will be ambushed from the most unexpected places.

For every decision, big and small, I ever had to make on Alec’s behalf throughout his life only one question guided me, and it had nothing to do with finances, convenience, or expediency: What was in his best interests? I don’t mean to imply this was ever easy, especially when he struggled with terminal cancer, and later when his body began to succumb to the disease. In fact these were the most difficult decisions I have ever in my life made (even more difficult than those I had to make after he became paralyzed a mere two years earlier). It is much harder to make life-or-death decisions on behalf of someone else, someone who cannot talk and is entirely dependent upon your judgment. This is a lot of responsibility and it requires setting aside incredibly strong emotions so you can balance your own need to never let go of someone you love so dearly, and the need to see what is in his best interests (and then to act on this knowledge, a separate but equally difficult task).

Alec didn’t like cameras much but I (obviously) overruled him on that; however, I always put his needs first when it counted. There were too many things that were out of my control, but I did the best I could. I think I did okay. I think he was happy most of the time. All I ever wanted was to give Alec a good life. When that was no longer an option, the only thing left for me to give him was a good death. I’m so sorry, Alec. I wish with all my heart I never had to make that decision. I never wanted to let you go. But it would have been wrong to let you suffer.


Filed under Euthanasia, Grief and loss