“When you truly love any acre, any being, any waterway, you love them all and realize you’re intimately connected. You can’t change everything, but you can love it all.”
-Kitty O’Meara (from 4/26/21 blog post “Ordinary Things of Conspicuous Value” – The Daily Round
I waited a very very long time to have a dog. Waited past the years of long hotel hours and after the constant moving was behind me. Waited until I had some roots to make a home for him. Waited for a place where I could provide a spot on the planet where there was room to roam, where a dog could be a dog. A dog. A friend. A companion. A confidant. A being that loved the outdoors and nature like I did, a bit independent, couldn’t wait to get out in the snow… and I found Little Bear or Little Bear found me. Craig called him Bob. We settled on Little Bear Bob Barker.
He was an Australian Shepherd, and as a puppy loved to nip – he wanted to herd things – people, other animals, get them in line. He also used to like to go visiting – we have no fencing, and wanted him to be able to explore, to run and run, so for a while he toured around the hood. Later he stuck to his own property mostly. And man, could that dog run. Like the wind! Little Bear loved when I was outside with him, running laps around me – five times for my one. Checking back on me, exploring, checking back on me again – over and over. But there was so much to see, and smell and experience and my pace was way too slow for that.
God, I loved that dog. Ferociously. Do people who don’t have children love their pets more than those that must share their love with their offspring? Not necessarily – I know lots of dog lovers who adore their pets, sometimes more than their children honestly. But I do know that he wasn’t a substitute child for me, he was just Little Bear, a unique being on the planet and I adored him. A sweet, smart, enthusiastic soul who just loved life, loved everyone, people and other animals, and was so very very happy – ALL the time.
His job was to case the perimeter, ensure there were no intruders – especially deer, they had to go – not catch them mind you, or hurt them, just get them off the property – the imaginary line he had established in his dog mind was always secure on his watch. He’d saunter back after ensuring this was done efficiently, after running so hard, head down. I worried about the gopher holes, that he’d break a leg, but he was too smart for that. He was wicked smart. Smarter than me. The foxes really made him crazy though – didn’t know exactly what to do with them – play? run them off? tilt your head and just examine them? All of the above.
His energy was everywhere in our home and our lives. And that’s the hardest part. The quiet from the lack of his energy. It was potent. I hope it will linger. Contagious. Infectious. Beautiful. Special. It feels empty now.
There’s a huge hole. Gigantic. He was always at the door to greet me, always wanted to go outside with me, was always at my feet at my desk, or while I watched a movie, slept on the bed, followed me everywhere even the bathroom. Laying so close by to touch me. Telling me so much with his people eyes. No Little Bear eyes. We had so many rituals. Morning outside, followed by his toothbrush. Breakfast. A walk. Play with the dodo. Nap. On football Sundays, there was a touchdown dance when the Seahawks scored, outside to scout first to the meadow, diagonal across the lawn, up the ridge, back across into the woods – all ok, saunter back ready for a treat. Dinner. On the couch between us, nap at my feet, rest at my desk when I’m in here working, up on the bed – the bottom, for sleeping, wait at the door when we’re away, maybe nap a little, but always waiting at the door when we return, run to all three doors when my jeep pulled away. There are so many spaces now that Little Bear filled – it hasn’t even been a full day and they are overwhelming.
It was just this morning that he left us, while I lay beside him. Just the day before he was outside in the snow surveying the beauty there. He had a restless night, woke up and decided it was time to go. His quality of life up until the day before he left us was good – I’m grateful for that and, too, I’m a bit scared about how deeply this hurts, how derailed I feel – no good perspective, just overwhelming sadness and emptiness. Craig, who didn’t want a dog at first, suffering just as much as I am, and that’s hard too. They were big buddies – “want to go for a truck ride” was the biggest thrill for Little Bear, and caused great euphoria, and off they’d go. But then everything made that dog happy, just being, was enough.
I learned so much from him. My heart has been torn open. Yes, I loved this little fur clad soul ferociously, and the pain is tremendous, but the love was worth it – even now.
“We were not meant to live shallow lives, pocked by meaningless routines and the secondary satisfactions of happy hour. We are the inheritors of an amazing lineage, rippling with memories of life lived intimately with bison and gazelle, raven and the night sky.
We are designed to encounter this life with amazement and wonder, not resignation and endurance. This is at the very heart of our grief and sorrow.
The dream of full-throated living, woven into our very being, has often been forgotten and neglected, replaced by a societal fiction of productivity and material gain. No wonder we seek distractions.
Every sorrow we carry extends from the absence of what we require to stay engaged in this “one wild and precious life”.
“This is the time to be slow, Lie low to the wall Until the bitter weather passes.
Try, as best you can, not to let The wire brush of doubt Scrape from your heart All sense of yourself And your hesitant light.
If you remain generous, Time will come good; And you will find your feet Again on fresh pastures of promise, Where the air will be kind And blushed with beginning.
