Favorite Poems

The last word: Why old dogs are the best dogs

They can be eccentric, slow afoot, even grouchy. But dogs live out their final days, says The Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten, with a humility and grace we all could learn from.

They can be eccentric, slow afoot, even grouchy. But dogs live out their final days, says The Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten, with a humility and grace we all could learn from.

Not long before his death, Harry and I headed out for a walk that proved eventful. He was nearly 13, old for a big dog. Walks were no longer the slap-happy Iditarods of his youth, frenzies of purposeless pulling in which we would cast madly off in all directions, fighting for command. Nor were they the exuberant archaeological expeditions of his middle years, when every other tree or hydrant or blade of grass held tantalizing secrets about his neighbors. In his old age, Harry had transformed his walk into a simple process of elimination—a dutiful, utilitarian, head-down trudge. When finished, he would shuffle home to his ratty old bed, which graced our living room because Harry could no longer ascend the stairs. On these walks, Harry seemed oblivious to his surroundings, absorbed in the arduous responsibility of placing foot before foot before foot before foot. But this time, on the edge of a small urban park, he stopped to watch something. A man was throwing a Frisbee to his dog. The dog, about Harry’s size, was tracking the flight expertly, as Harry had once done, anticipating hooks and slices by watching the pitch and roll and yaw of the disc, as Harry had done, then catching it with a joyful, punctuating leap, as Harry had once done, too.

Harry sat. For 10 minutes, he watched the fling and catch, fling and catch, his face contented, his eyes alight, his tail a-twitch. Our walk home was almost … jaunty.

Some years ago, The Washington Post invited readers to come up with a midlife list of goals for an underachiever. The first-runner-up prize went to: “Win the admiration of my dog.”

It’s no big deal to love a dog; they make it so easy for you. They find you brilliant, even if you are a witling. You fascinate them, even if you are as dull as a butter knife. They are fond of you, even if you are a genocidal maniac. Hitler loved his dogs, and they loved him.

Puppies are incomparably cute and incomparably entertaining, and, best of all, they smell exactly like puppies. At middle age, a dog has settled into the knuckleheaded matrix of behavior we find so appealing—his unquestioning loyalty, his irrepressible willingness to please, his infectious happiness. But it is not until a dog gets old that his most important virtues ripen and coalesce. Old dogs can be cloudy-eyed and grouchy, gray of muzzle, graceless of gait, odd of habit, hard of hearing, pimply, wheezy, lazy, and lumpy. But to anyone who has ever known an old dog, these flaws are of little consequence. Old dogs are vulnerable. They show exorbitant gratitude and limitless trust. They are without artifice. They are funny in new and unexpected ways. But, above all, they seem at peace.

Kafka wrote that the meaning of life is that it ends. He meant that our lives are shaped and shaded by the existential terror of knowing that all is finite. This anxiety informs poetry, literature, the monuments we build, the wars we wage—all of it. Kafka was talking, of course, about people. Among animals, only humans are said to be self-aware enough to comprehend the passage of time and the grim truth of mortality. How, then, to explain old Harry at the edge of that park, gray and lame, just days from the end, experiencing what can only be called wistfulness and nostalgia? I have lived with eight dogs, watched six of them grow old and infirm with grace and dignity, and die with what seemed to be acceptance. I have seen old dogs grieve at the loss of their friends. I have come to believe that as they age, dogs comprehend the passage of time, and, if not the inevitability of death, certainly the relentlessness of the onset of their frailties. They understand that what’s gone is gone.

What dogs do not have is an abstract sense of fear, or a feeling of injustice or entitlement. They do not see themselves, as we do, as tragic heroes, battling ceaselessly against the merciless onslaught of time. Unlike us, old dogs lack the audacity to mythologize their lives. You’ve got to love them for that.

The product of a Kansas puppy mill, Harry was sold to us as a yellow Labrador retriever. I suppose it was technically true, but only in the sense that Tic Tacs are technically “food.” Harry’s lineage was suspect. He wasn’t the square-headed, elegant type of Labrador you can envision in the wilds of Canada hunting for ducks. He was the shape of a baked potato, with the color and luster of an interoffice envelope. You could envision him in the wilds of suburban Toledo, hunting for nuggets of dried food in a carpet.

His full name was Harry S Truman, and once he’d reached middle age, he had indeed developed the unassuming soul of a haberdasher. We sometimes called him Tru, which fit his loyalty but was in other ways a misnomer: Harry was a bit of an eccentric, a few bubbles off plumb. Though he had never experienced an electrical shock, whenever he encountered a wire on the floor—say, a power cord leading from a laptop to a wall socket—Harry would stop and refuse to proceed. To him, this barrier was as impassable as the Himalayas. He’d stand there, waiting for someone to move it. Also, he was afraid of wind.

While Harry lacked the wiliness and cunning of some dogs, I did watch one day as he figured out a basic principle of physics. He was playing with a water bottle in our backyard—it was one of those 5-gallon cylindrical plastic jugs from the top of a water cooler. At one point, it rolled down a hill, which surprised and delighted him. He retrieved it, brought it back up and tried to make it go down again. It wouldn’t. I watched him nudge it around until he discovered that for the bottle to roll, its long axis had to be perpendicular to the slope of the hill. You could see the understanding dawn on his face; it was Archimedes in his bath, Helen Keller at the water spigot.

That was probably the intellectual achievement of Harry’s life, tarnished only slightly by the fact that he spent the next two hours insipidly entranced, rolling the bottle down and hauling it back up. He did not come inside until it grew too dark for him to see.

I believe I know exactly when Harry became an old dog. He was about 9 years old. It happened at 10:15 on the evening of June 21, 2001, the day my family moved from the suburbs to the city. The move took longer than we’d anticipated. Inexcusably, Harry had been left alone in the vacated house—eerie, echoing, empty of furniture and of all belongings except Harry and his bed—for eight hours. When I arrived to pick him up, he was beyond frantic.

He met me at the door and embraced me around the waist in a way that is not immediately reconcilable with the musculature and skeleton of a dog’s front legs. I could not extricate myself from his grasp. We walked out of that house like a slow-dancing couple, and Harry did not let go until I opened the car door.

He wasn’t barking at me in reprimand, as he once might have done. He hadn’t fouled the house in spite. That night, Harry was simply scared and vulnerable, impossibly sweet and needy and grateful. He had lost something of himself, but he had gained something more touching and more valuable. He had entered old age.

In the year after our move, Harry began to age visibly, and he did it the way most dogs do. First his muzzle began to whiten, and then the white slowly crept backward to swallow his entire head. As he became more sedentary, he thickened a bit, too.

On walks, he would no longer bother to scout and circle for a place to relieve himself. He would simply do it in mid-plod, like a horse, leaving the difficult logistics of drive-by cleanup to me. Sometimes, while crossing a busy street, with cars whizzing by, he would plop down to scratch his ear. Sometimes, he would forget where he was and why he was there. To the amusement of passersby, I would have to hunker down beside him and say, “Harry, we’re on a walk, and we’re going home now. Home is this way, okay?” On these dutiful walks, Harry ignored almost everything he passed. The most notable exception was an old, barrel-chested female pit bull named Honey, whom he loved. This was surprising, both because other dogs had long ago ceased to interest Harry at all, and because even back when they did, Harry’s tastes were for the guys.

Still, when we met Honey on walks, Harry perked up. Honey was younger by five years and heartier by a mile, but she liked Harry and slowed her gait when he was around. They waddled together for blocks, eyes forward, hardly interacting but content in each other’s company. I will forever be grateful to Honey for sweetening Harry’s last days.

Some people who seem unmoved by the deaths of tens of thousands through war or natural disaster will nonetheless grieve inconsolably over the loss of the family dog. People who find this behavior distasteful are often the ones without pets. It is hard to understand, in the abstract, the degree to which a companion animal, particularly after a long life, becomes a part of you. I believe I’ve figured out what this is all about. It is not as noble as I’d like it to be, but it is not anything of which to be ashamed, either.

In our dogs, we see ourselves. Dogs exhibit almost all of our emotions; if you think a dog cannot register envy or pity or pride or melancholia, you have never lived with one for any length of time. What dogs lack is our ability to dissimulate. They wear their emotions nakedly, and so, in watching them, we see ourselves as we would be if we were stripped of posture and pretense. Their innocence is enormously appealing. When we watch a dog progress from puppy hood to old age, we are watching our own lives in microcosm. Our dogs become old, frail, crotchety, and vulnerable, just as Grandma did, just as we surely will, come the day. When we grieve for them, we grieve for ourselves.

From the book Old Dogs, text by Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson, based on a longer excerpt that originally appeared in The Washington Post. ©2008 by Gene Weingarten and Michael S. Williamson. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster Inc.

A Shelter Dogs Poem

Once upon a time, you see,
There was this little pup
For reasons unbeknownst to me,
His family gave him up

Maybe it was chewing
Everything that he could find
Maybe they were busy and
Just didn't have the time

They took him to the shelter
And they just left him there
Outside, alone, in the cage
Shivering and scared

Even though they knew inside
If he went through those doors
He may never have the chance
To find a home like yours

He sat there crying silently
Wondering what he did
That was so bad that they just
Had to leave him like they did

However fate was smiling
On that little pup that day
Because a lady saw him
And she whisked him right away

He got a second chance at life
That others may have not
And now he's in a loving home
With everything he wants

Every day he gets that love
That he was looking for
And silently is thankful for when
She walked through that door

Others may not have this chance
So open up your heart
And adopt a shelter dog to take
And give a brand new start

Ten Commandments
~ For Pet Owners ~

My Life is likely to last 10 to 15 years. Any separation from you will be very painful.

Give me time to understand what you want from me. Do not break my spirit with your temper, though I will always forgive you. Your patience will teach me more effectively.

Please have me spayed or neutered.

Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for your kindness than mine. Don't be angry with me for long, and don't lock me up as punishment. After all, you have your job, your friends, your entertainment. I only have you.

Speak to me often. Even if I don't understand your words, I understand your voice when it’s speaking to me. Your voice is the sweetest sound I ever hear, as you must know by my enthusiasm whenever I hear your footsteps.

Take me in when it's cold and wet. I’m a domestic animal and am no longer accustomed to the bitter elements. I ask for little more than your gentle hands petting me. Keep my bowl filled with water. Feed me good food so that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding. By your side, I stand ready, willing and able to share my life with you, for that is what I live for. I’ll never forget how well you've treated me.

Don't hit me. Remember I have teeth that could easily crush the bones in your hand, but I choose not to bite you.

Before you scold me for being lazy or uncooperative, ask yourself if something is bothering me. Perhaps I'm not getting the right food, I’ve been out in the sun too long, or my heart might be getting weak.

Take care of me when I get old. For you will grow old, too.

When I’m old, or when I no longer enjoy good health, please do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having fun. Just see to it that my trusting life is taken gently. And be with me on that difficult journey when it’s time to say goodbye. Never say, "I just can’t bear to watch." Everything is easier for me when you are there. I will leave this earth knowing with my last breath that my fate was always safest in your hands. I Love You.

Jack Kenner ~ www.jackkenner.com

The Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown...

In this House

Here in this house...
I will never know the loneliness I hear in the barks of the other dogs "out there".
I can sleep soundly, assured that when I wake my world will not have changed.
I will never know hunger, or the fear of not knowing if I'll eat.
I will not shiver in the cold, or grow weary from the heat.
I will feel the sun's heat, and the rain's coolness, and be allowed to smell all that can reach my nose.
My fur will shine, and never be dirty or matted.

Here in this house...
There will be an effort to communicate with me on my level.
I will be talked to and even if I don't understand, I can enjoy the warmth of the words.
I will be given a name so that I may know who I am among many.
My name will be used in joy, and I will love the sound of it!

Here in this house...
I will never be a substitute for anything I am not.
I will never be used to improve people's images of themselves.
I will be loved because of who I am, not someone's idea of who I should be.
I will never suffer for someone's anger, impatience, or stupidity.
I will be taught all the things I need to know to be loved by all.
If I do not learn my lessons well, my teachers will blame themselves, not me.

Here in this house...
I can trust the arms that hold, hands that touch...knowing that, no matter what they do, they do it for the good of me.
If I am ill, I will be doctored.
If scared, I will be calmed.
If sad, I will be cheered.
No matter what I look like, I will be considered beautiful and known to be of value.
I will never be cast out because I am too old, too ill, or too unruly, or not cute enough.
My life is a responsibility, and not an afterthought.
I will learn that my humans can almost, sometimes, be as kind and as fair as dogs.

Here in this house...
I will belong.
I will be home.

(Author unknown)

Waterbugs and Dragonflies - Doris Stickney

Down below the surface of a quiet pond lived a little colony of water bugs. They were a happy colony, living far away from the sun. For many months they were very busy, scurrying over the soft mud on the bottom of the pond. They did notice that every once in a while one of their colony seemed to lose interest in going about with its friends. Clinging to the stem of a lily, it gradually moved out of sight and was seen no more.

'Look!' said one of the water bugs to another, 'One of our colony is climbing up the lily stalk. Where do you suppose she is going?' Up, up, up it went slowly. Even as they watched, the water bug disappeared from sight. Its friends waited and waited but it didn't return. 'That's funny!' said one water bug to another. 'Wasn't she happy here?' asked a second water bug. 'Were do you suppose she went?' wondered a third. No one had an answer. They were greatly puzzled.

Finally one of the water bugs, the leader of the colony, gathered its friends together. 'I have an idea. The next one of us who climbs up the lily stalk must promise to come back and tell us where she went and why.' 'We promise', they said solemnly.

One spring day, not long after, the very water bug who had suggested the plan found himself climbing up the lily stalk. Up, up, up he went. Before he knew what was happening, he had broken through the surface of the water, and had fallen onto the broad, green lily pad above.

When he awoke, he looked about with surprise. He couldn't believe what he saw. A startling change had come to his old body. His movement revealed four silver wings and a long tail. Even as he struggled, he felt an impulse to move his wings. The warmth of the sun soon dried the moisture from the new body. He moved his wings again and suddenly found himself up above the water. He had become a dragonfly.

Swooping and dipping in great curves, he flew through the air. He felt exhilarated in the new atmosphere. By and by, the new dragonfly lighted happily on a lily pad to rest. Then it was that he chanced to look below to the bottom of the pond. Why, he was right above his old friends, the water bugs!. There they were, scurrying about, just as he had been doing some time before. Then the dragonfly remembered his promise: 'The next one of us who climbs up the lily stalk will come back and tell where he or she went and why'.

Without thinking, the dragonfly darted down. Suddenly he hit the surface of the water and bounced away. Now that he was a dragonfly he could no longer go into the water. 'I can't return!' he said in dismay. 'At least I tried, but I can't keep my promise. Even if I could go back, not one of the water bugs would know me in my new body. I guess I'll just have to wait until they become dragonflies too. Then they'll understand what happened to me, and where I went'.

And the dragonfly winged off happily into its wonderful new world of sun and air.

AN ANGEL IN THE POST OFFICE

Date: 2007-11-23, 10:55PM MST

This is one of the kindest things I’ve ever experienced. I have no way to know who sent it, but there is a kind soul working in the dead letter office of the US postal service. Our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her. I told her that I thought we could so she dictated these words:

Dear God, Will you please take care of my dog? She died yesterday and is with you in heaven. I miss her very much. I am happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick. I hope you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and to swim. I am sending a picture of her so when you see her you will know that she is my dog. I really miss her.

Love, Meredith.

We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey and Meredith and addressed it to God/Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the way to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the post office. A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.

Yesterday, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, ‘To Meredith’ in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called, ‘When a Pet Dies.’ Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope. On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey & Meredith and this note:

Dear Meredith,

Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Having the picture was a big help. I recognized Abbey right away. Abbey isn’t sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart. Abbey loved being your dog. Since we don’t need our bodies in heaven, I don’t have any pockets to keep your picture in, so I am sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by. Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me. What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you. I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much. By the way, I am wherever there is love.

Love, God

BUT IT’S JUST A DOG

– Taken from the Internet

From time to time, people tell me, “Lighten up, it's just a dog,” or, “that's a lot of money for just a dog.” They don't understand the distance traveled, the time spent, or the costs involved for “just a dog.”

Some of my happiest times are with “just a dog.” Many hours can pass with only the company of “just a dog,” And that is fine with me.

And some of my saddest moments have been brought about by the loss of “just a dog”. In those days of darkness, the loving memories of “just a dog” gave me comfort and reason to get through the day.

If you, too, think it's “just a dog,” then you will probably like phrases such as “just a friend”, “just a sunrise”, or “just a promise”. “Just a dog” brings into my life the very essence of friendship, trust, and pure unbridled joy. “Just a dog” brings out the compassion and patience that make me a better person. Because of “just a dog” I rise early, take long walks and look longingly to the future.

So for me and folks like me, it's not “just a dog” but an embodiment of all the hopes and dreams of the future, the fond memories of the past, and the pure joy of the moment. “Just a dog” brings out what's good in me and diverts my thoughts away from my troubles and the worries of the day.

I hope that someday those people can understand that it's not “just a dog” but the thing that gives me humanity and keeps me from being “just a girl.” So the next time you hear the phrase “just a dog,” you can smile, because they just don't understand.”

OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES

– Anonymous: Taken from the Internet

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound. The dog's owners and their little boy were all very attached to him and they were hoping for a miracle.

In my examination I found he was dying of cancer. I told the family there were no miracles left for him, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog, in their home. As we made the arrangements they thought it would be good for the four-year-old son to observe the procedure.

They believed that he might learn something from the experience. The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as the dog's family surrounded him. The boy seemed so calm, petting his old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on.

Within a few minutes, the dog slipped peacefully away. The little boy seemed to accept the transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after their pet's death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.

The boy, who had been listening quietly, piped up, "I know why." Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation.

He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life – like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?"

The four-year-old continued, "Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

A note from Dr. Dunn...

The following email was sent to ThePetCenter.com by Rosemary M. and it describes her family's kitty named Snowball. Snowball knew the people around her were missing loved ones, and so did Snowball. She seems to display a sense of loss...

My mother died on Aug 18th, 1998. After my mother died our little cat, Snowball, became my father's constant companion. She followed him everywhere and was so much company to him. He passed away on Dec. 19th, 2001. The week he was dying Snowball stayed by his side in bed until we took him to the hospital where he passed on. After he died, Snowball became everyone's best friend, trying to get everyone thru a very hurtful time. How much she really knew I don't know. I do know when my mother died she became sad and curled up in her chair for weeks knowing something/someone was missing. When my father died, she laid on his bed waiting for him to return.

There is one thing about snowball that is different from other cats I know. She has a little dolly she carries with her everywhere when she is lonely or upset. It is an old beany baby doll that she gravitated towards. When she is unsure of her surroundings or something is not right, you will find she has carried that beany baby and placed it on the floor by your feet. I use to think it odd behavior, but I think I understand. She has been thru a lot and she was close to my dad. I tried to replace him and make time for her, but it is hard when everyone is grieving. She is doing well, but she still carries the beany baby. Maybe she always will.
Rosemary M.

The Journey

"When you bring a dog into your life, you begin a journey. A journey that will bring you more love and devotion than you have ever known, yet will also test your strength and courage. If you allow, the journey will teach you many things, about life, about yourself, and most of all, about love. You will come away changed forever, for one soul cannot touch another without forever leaving its mark.

Along the way, you will learn much about savoring life's simple pleasures -- jumping in leaves, snoozing in the sun, the joys of puddles, and even the satisfaction of a good scratch behind the ears. If you spend much time outside, you will be taught how to truly experience every element, for no rock, leaf, or log will go unexamined, no rustling bush will be overlooked, and even the very air will be inhaled, pondered, and noted as being full of valuable information.

Your pace may be slower, except when heading home to the food dish, but you will become a better naturalist, having been taught by an expert in the field.

Too many times we hike on automatic pilot, our goal being to complete the trail rather than enjoy the journey. We miss the details: the colorful mushrooms on the rotting log, the honeycomb in the old maple snag, the hawk feather caught on a twig. Once we walk as a dog does, we discover a whole new

world. We stop; we browse the landscape, we kick over leaves, peek in tree holes, look up, down, all around. And we learn what any dog knows: that nature has created a marvelously complex world that is full of surprises, that each cycle of the seasons bring ever changing wonders, that each day has an essence all its own.

Even from indoors, you will find yourself more attuned to the world around you. You will find yourself watching: summer insects collecting on a screen; how bizarre they are; how many kinds there are; or noting the flick and flash of fireflies through the dark. You will stop to observe the swirling dance of windblown leaves, or sniff the air after a rain. It does not matter that there is no objective in this; the point is in the doing, in not letting life's most important details slip by.

You will find yourself doing silly things that your dog-less friends might not understand: spending thirty minutes in the grocery aisle looking for the exact brand of food your companion must have, buying dog birthday treats, or just driving around the block an extra time because your dog enjoys the ride.

You will roll in the snow, wrestle with chewie toys, bounce tennis balls till your eyes cross, and even run around the house trailing your bathrobe tie with a puppy in hot pursuit, all in the name of love.

Your house will become muddier and hairier. You will wear less dark clothing and buy more lint rollers. You may find dog biscuits in your pocket or purse, and feel the need to explain that old socks adorn your living room floor because your dog loves an impromptu game of tug. You will learn the true measure of love--the steadfast, undying kind that says, "It doesn't matter where we are or what we do, or how life treats us as long as we are together."

Respect this always. It is the most precious gift any living soul can give another. You will not find it often among the human race. And you will learn humility. The look in my dog's eyes often made me feel ashamed--such joy and love at my presence! She saw not some flawed human who could be cross and stubborn, moody or rude, but only her wonderful companion. Or maybe she saw those things and dismissed them as mere human foibles, not worth considering, and so chose to love me anyway.

If you pay attention and learn well, when the journey is done, you will be not just a better person, but the person your dog always knew you to be--the one they were proud to call beloved friend.

I must caution you that this journey is not without pain. Like all paths of true love, the pain is part of loving. For as surely as the sun sets, one day your dear companion will follow a trail you cannot yet go down. And you will have to find the strength and love to let them go.

A dog's time on earth is far too short, especially for those of us that love them. We borrow them, really, just for a while; and during these brief years they are generous enough to give us all their love, every inch of their spirit and heart, until one day there is nothing left. The dog that only yesterday was a puppy is all too soon old and frail and sleeping in the sun. The young pup of boundless energy now wakes up stiff and lame, the muzzle gone to gray.

Deep down we somehow always knew that this journey would end. We knew that if we gave our hearts they would be broken. But give them we must, for it is all they ask in return. When the time comes, and the road curves ahead to a place we cannot see, we give one final gift and let them run on ahead, young and whole once more. "God speed, good friend," we say, "until our journey comes full circle and our paths will cross again."

Author unknown

MAKING PEACE
PEARLS OF WISDOM FROM PET FAMILIES

“If I had another 50 years with Shiva – it wouldn’t be enough. I’d want 50 years – and a day.”

“If I had the chance to do everything over – including losing him -- I’d do it again – ten times over. I’m a better person for having known, loved and been loved by him.”

“She was my greatest teacher and healer. Even with her loss I learn new things about myself, our relationship, loving and being loved.”

[From a child...] “He is still with me - it’s only his wrapper that we buried.”

“If I didn’t love her so much – it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“She would bite me in the butt for being neglectful of myself or doubting my care for her. She would want me to be as gentle with myself as she always was.”

“As in the story of Waterbugs & Dragonflies” he is with me still – with an energy that I cannot fully recognize but I know is there. I will live out my life fully and I shall look ever so forward to joining him in the flight of the Dragonfly.”

“I am blessed to know such a tender soul – some do not have or know the gift of being loved so deeply as only an animal can - I will respect that love by eventually going and loving some more. She would want that for me. She knows how important my animal companions are - though there will never again be one as special as she – she was the first – to teach me how to be loved. “

“Allowing myself to remember his goofy antics, our terrific adventures, his favorite places to scratch and our many secret conversations - gives me permission to heal, the pain to lessen and for our time together - now memories - to offer me solace and hope again for the future.”

[With regard to euthanasia...] ”I’m so glad that I could help him out of the body that had come to fail and only bring him pain. His spirit remains beautiful, peaceful, young and a part of me.”

“When my body fails me and I go, our ashes will be spread in the ocean where we always played together. Our spirits – free from the body that served us while on earth - will once again be together.”

“She trusted me and even though my human tendency is to doubt myself, my choices, and my shortcomings with her care – especially at the end - she trusted me. She didn’t need to complicate things the way that I do. Belief in her trust in me, means knowing that I never let her down. She knows that love doesn’t work that way.”

[In response to a thoughtless remark to “simply” replace her beloved cat...] “I could get another husband if he died; another home if mine burned; another friend if I moved. What matters is the relationship – not the skin, the fur, the feathers or the number of legs. I loved that “cat” more than I ever thought possible to love anyone or anything.”

“I feel sorry for those who’ve never known the love of an animal. They’ve missed out on spiritual love, unconditional love and a tenderness of heart that no person could ever convey.”

ANNIE'S LETTER

Dear Susan,

I just want you to know how happy I am to be in doggy heaven. It is great up here! My legs work fine, and I only go to the bathroom outdoors, just like I used to, before I got real old. Also, I can hear again! The other barking dogs here are all very friendly, and once in a while I even bark back at them. It feels real good to bark again.

The views are spectacular. I can see all of Winnetka, Deephaven, Tonka Bay, Bloomington, and all points in between. I can see the work going on in our back yard... it is shaping up and will stay beautiful now. At the end of my time there, I could not see the yard or anything very clearly. My mind is inquisitive again, too. I am sticking my nose in to all the new nooks and crannies here. Exploring used to be a big part of my life. Remember me tugging you in all directions on our walks, except for the last year or so. And I like being real mobile, nimble on all four feet, again. I want to thank the whole family for taking care of me for 15 great years (well, really, 14 great years---my last year of real advanced age was not so great, for me at least).

You may think you rescued me years ago after I was abandoned, but that is not quite right. You see, I selected you guys, not the other way around, because I knew you were a great family that would take really good care of me! And did you ever take really good care of me!! Really, really good as you would say. Especially you, Susan. You were the one who usually put my food in my bowl, took care of my water, too. That is all I ever really needed. And you kept the bowls clean, because you knew that was important to me. You were my very best special friend. Thanks.

You took me to the vet for my check ups, and had me fixed when my spleen went bad on me. Remember when my ear filled up? You nursed me through that too. Even though you laughed at me, you knew how stupid I felt walking around with that lamp shade device on my head and you were able to comfort me through that difficult time. By the way, would you please throw out all the photos of me bumping into walls and chairs with that stupid thing on my head... it just is not in keeping with my lady-like personality!

The affection shown to me by Maggie and Katie was awesome. I felt like their sister, except I liked them so much I could never fight with them like some sisters do sometimes. I just tried to return their affection to thank them for cuddling with me on the floor and petting me so gently and stuff like that. I know they loved me so much, even when I got old and even though I could not show them the attention the way I did when I was younger and full of it, like I am again now.

But you, Susan, meant the most to me because you did the most for me and we spent the most time together. You really favored me with so much care and love for 15 years. I know I was helpful to you when it was just the two of us at the end of our time in Minnesota, and how glad I am for that---just to be able to repay you a little bit for all that you did for me. How many piles of my poop did you pick up? How many thousands of times did you open or close a door to let me in or out? How many bazillion hairs did you sweep up? How many hours did you spend vacuuming? Thank you so, so, so much. (Regarding the poop, I apologize for my little problem in cars---and boats---but I just got so excited that, well... you know.)

There is NO way I could possibly thank you enough for the help and joy you gave to me during our 15 years together. I was sorry I had to go when I did, but I was so old. I did not want to be boarded any more. I had zero energy for that, or any other activity either! It was definitely time. Like Uncle T. said, I was having way more bad days than good, many more bad hours than good hours. I really was not happy at the end, and now I am happy again. Remember me with a smile on your face because that is the way I remember you and Maggie and Katie and Paul. I have a big smile on my face now. My ears are sometimes floppy and sometimes (as you would always say) "precious". I get hamburgers any time I want. My head is way out the window when I go riding around with my furry pals. There are no fences or leashes here. I go for walks often. Life is great again! It really was time for me to go, and I thank you for your help in making it dignified and easy.

I love you, Susan, and Maggie and Katie and Paul, and always will.

Annie

P.S. I really liked being a girl, in a house with three other girls. It was especially fun when we ganged up on Paul. Ha!

Do pets grieve the passing of their human friends?
The answer is easy if you understand the message of this story.
If pets could talk, this is what they would say...

The Stone With Your Name On It

by Dr. T. J. Dunn, Jr.

I’m waiting for you! Where did you go? Since that day when the whole family was upset and crying, and you weren't there for our evening walk, I’ve had an empty feeling inside me and all I want to do is find you. Now all I have are memories because you just aren't where you always used to be.

I remember how you and I would be the first ones up in the morning – we would take our walk before all the other people and cars would wake up. You and me, the soft morning sunlight and a chorus of birds happily announcing the arrival of another new day – that’s how every day would start. Now I walk alone when the family lets me out.

Sometimes we’d go one way, up the hill to the old cemetery under the broad, outstretched arms of the big White Pine trees. Some days you’d pick the other way and down the road we’d hike to Eddy Creek where I could swim and look for frogs. I never knew which way you were going to choose, you always made me guess and sometimes I’d guess wrong and you’d say, “No. We’re going this way today.”

Those walks we took were our private times together. I got really excited before our walks because you always let me be myself. You let me run and follow the scent trails of other animals. You let me dig up things that smelled good. You let me carry sticks in my mouth just because it felt good. I think you knew how proud I was whenever I could prance about with a useless old stick in my mouth. Sometimes I’d drop it at your feet and you’d pretend you didn’t know what to do with it. You’d tease me and ask, “What’s this for? What do you want me to do with this ole stick?” I’d dance around and bark and crouch really low and you’d say, “Oh, I see” and you’d send it flying through the air for me to fetch.

You knew I especially liked it when you’d throw a stick into Eddy Creek and I’d have to do some fancy swimming to retrieve it before it was carried off around the bend. I liked Eddy Creek, even when you’d tell me to lie down under the big willow tree for long naps while you worked your newest homemade trout fly across the water’s surface. I liked those naps and you liked those smelly little trout we’d take home for supper. I liked waiting for you back then because I always knew we’d play again tomorrow. Where did you go? I’m waiting for you!

Ever since that awful night so long ago when you didn’t take me for our evening walk through the yard, everything has been so different and strange. Where did you go? The family lets me out the door now, early like when you and I use to have our walks, but now all I do is walk by myself up to the old cemetery. I’ve given up visiting Eddy Creek in the morning. It’s too quiet there and I don’t see the little trout anymore. For a long time after you were gone I used to think I could still see you there at the water's edge with your teeth showing, your brown straw hat shading your eyes and your fly line looping over the water. I’d be so happy to see you I’d jump up and run to you – but you’d be gone when I’d get to the creek. I think the birds have left too because I don’t hear their happy songs celebrating the misty mornings like they used to when we were together.

The only place I feel like I’m close to you, where I think I can still feel your hand on my head like I did when I sat next to your reading chair, is when I sit near the stone with your name on it. That’s the only place I feel close to you now, where it feels like you are close to me. But that’s okay because I have lots to think about while I’m waiting for you.

Sometimes I think back to my first day with our family. I was happy and afraid at the same time and very curious about my new surroundings that were to be my home. Everyone was busy rubbing my ears and patting my head, picking me up and clapping their hands to get my attention. Finally, I found you, quietly sitting in your chair reading. It looked safe there by your side, so I sat there, too. I felt your gentle hand rub my cheek and all you said was a soft “Good boy”. Then you said to the rest of the family, “I think he just needs to rest now”. From then on I always felt safe next to you. You are my true friend. Maybe that’s why I spend every day here – waiting for you.

I know you’re here. I just don’t know why we can’t play anymore. Where did you go? Sometimes I hear myself whine and sigh because I miss you so much – I wonder if you hear me. I can’t see you or hear you or smell you, but you must be near because this is the only place I feel safe. So I’ll keep coming here to be with you, I’ll sit by the rock with your name on it and remember all the fun we had together. Deep inside me I know we will have more walks to take again someday. We’ll turn left at the road and hike down the hill to Eddy Creek. You’ll patiently tie on your newest trout fly and I’ll be lying under the willow tree watching you.

Until then, I promise you, with all the loyalty in my heart, I’ll stay right here so you can find me. I'll be next to the rock with your name on it, waiting for you.