On Impermanence, Love & Grief

From left to right- Duffy, Lenny, Lilly

While writing at times in my secret chamber, about this ongoing turmoil, now my friend being in hospital while my Dad being lightly better and at home, I was too reading an incredibly touching memoir of Valerie Poore. It tells about her life with her great doggy love Sindy, who came to her in young age, having been maltreated physically and psychological by humans. After eating me through a lifestory which made me grin, totally resonate and at the end cry, I was remembered on my own experience (and writing) with my beloved Lenny 3 years ago. As well as the sudden transition of his brother Duffy, who left mother earth 3 months before Lenny. As Impermanence of our and our beloved companions bodies, as well as the love and grief that come with it are part of life I'd like to share: I dedicate these words to Lenny’s brother Duffy,

to his human — my sister Andrea — and her husband Thomas, and their dog Lilly. You are in my heart, and therefore everywhere else too.

I sit here, and again and again tears rise to my eyes —sometimes interrupted by a smile that passes through me like the wind.The wind...

A few days ago I had a dream. A strange one. And one that seemed absurd when I woke up and remembered it.

Even though it remained vague, Duffy was in it — and the message that Duffy would cross the rainbow bridge before Lenny, that his body would die. And that it would happen quickly, almost overnight.

That morning — in a clear state of mind (although how clear or pure “just the mind” really is, is a question I find myself asking more and more) — it all seemed completely absurd. Almost ridiculous.

Duffy — unlike Lenny — was still fully fit.

Still jumping around, rolling in the grass, swimming. No signs of limitation, no diagnosed health issues. Despite being 17 years old (they both shared a birthday on August 1st).

Lenny, who still eats as if every meal were his last, who is alert and present — but has difficulty walking, moves slowly, frail. The heat exhausts him, his ailing heart, the heavy humidity presses on him.

At night, he struggles to settle down. And I’ve felt — every other day, it seems — that his death might be just around the corner.

And now — today — suddenly, it’s Duffy.

Duffy’s soul has left his body. Just like that.

Yesterday, still bright-eyed and bouncy.Then cramps. Emergency. Clinic.Medically induced deep sleep. Epilepsy medication that didn’t work. And the decision to let him go.

Less than 24 hours between full of life and gone.

Without a doubt, for Duffy himself, a fast, sudden death — without prolonged suffering. Just right. The way he lived: jump, dash… gone.

But I don’t know what is harder for us humans, the ones left behind…

Is it harder to slowly accompany the growing frailty of a beloved being, to be constantly called into deep sensing — because the mind simply can’t understand, and a dog doesn’t speak?

To open and widen the heart more and more, to sit again and again in the overwhelm of physical signs you can’t quite interpret —Is this pain? Is it something else?

To live day in, day out, in this reduction that such care demands?

To live in simplicity and so openly with the truth of mortality —To see that the spirit is still so full of life, so willing, but the body more and more unable?

Or is it harder when spirit and body seem in full agreement —everything’s fine, everyone’s happy, no warning signs —and then suddenly, unpredictably, the body crashes, and the physical death tears open your heart like lightning, leaving it raw and bleeding tears?

I don’t know...

What I do know is that the emptiness, the pain, or whatever feelings arise when one of our beloved companions leaves us —these simple, magical beings, with their distinct personalities and unconditional love —it’s simply beyond words.

There is no preparation.

Especially not by the mind.

Mentally, you cannot prepare for something that surpasses the mind entirely.

What I also know: If we manage not to shut down the heart —if we stay with the tears, the sorrow, the roaring, deep pain —if we allow whatever comes to be there, exactly as it is —then in this tender, open presence, in this love in its purest, judgment-free form —that is where the spirit of our dogs speaks.

And that quality of love, this vast space, is what can carry us through even these dark, painful times.

Just before — or perhaps exactly when the decision was made — I went for a walk by our little stream.Lenny waded through the water. The church bells began to ring.The silence afterward. And then, the wind picked up. And from that silence I thought: “Duffy is now in the wind.”

A little later, I received the devastating message.The tears came instantly.

I fed Lenny, and cried.

I ate my dinner, which had just finished cooking, and cried.

I lay down with Lenny on the couch, and cry.

I write, and cry.

Cry — and sometimes smile at the same time. Shake my head. And simply… am.

Duffy who smiled with his little teeth...

Duffy who would grumpily retreated to his bed when he wanted peace...

Duffy who sometimes seemed a little disoriented...

Duffy who leapt and ran with joy...

Duffy who — even at the end — could still be sent into a frenzy by the scent of a lady (teeth chattering included)...

Duffy whose age you couldn’t see — an ageless mythical being…

…has now left behind his strong and vibrant body, and the loving home with the best possible humans — companions, caretakers, friends, parents —and stepped into eternity.

An eternity he always carried within him while alive.The magical, ageless, mythical being.

Duffy is now in the love you feel.

Duffy is in the wind that touches your face.

Duffy is now everywhere — and in everything.

You can find Val's Memoir HERE It's a must read for all people, who are deeply in love with their dog(s) as well as helpful for those who care for a rescue especially with an anxiety disorder combined with a strong character