I. Lessons Born of Loss

A. Forgiveness

     On the Wednesday before Huan died, I felt myself getting sick. I was tired. It was late. I let him out, and he wouldn't come back in. He was just standing there, staring at me. I stormed outside in the cold. Angry. Teeth clenched. I scolded him, though I don't even remember what I said. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled so hard that it slipped right over his head. And he was afraid. Truly afraid, probably all the more so because he wasn't really there--diminished mental capacity, sight, hearing, overall awareness.  Not only was he not staring at me, it's very likely that he didn't even see me. And I, the one person who was supposed to love and protect him, scared him when he was his most vulnerable and weak.  And three days later, he died in my arms.

The thing is, I can't even plead, "Hindsight is 20/20." In my very first post on this blog, I said how sorry I was for being impatient with him when he was healthy. And here he was sick, dying for months--I knew it was only a matter of time--and I did it again.  Granted, I didn't know how bad it really was at that moment. But I should have known he wasn't being defiant because he would never be. More importantly, I had the hindsight of regret and the foresight of his death, and I still managed screw it up. I think this is what my sophomores would refer to as "epic fail."

This scenario has played over and over again in my head since he passed away.  I just keep confessing it, first to friends and now on the worldwide web, waiting for some kind of absolution. And everyone, including my husband, has told me, "You're only human...people make mistakes...what counts is the love you gave him over the years...Huan forgave you." But no one can absolve me of this one, least of all Huan. I need to learn to forgive myself. This one is a work in progress.

B. Empathy

      Since I lost Huan, there are acquaintances who I know have read my blog and/or know of his death from Facebook postings. And they have said nothing, haven't acknowledged his passing in any way. No private messages, texts, emails. Nothing. And then there are people whom I consider friends--some of them good friends. Some of them have offered only superficial, seemingly obligatory and contrived words of comfort. Others have said absolutely nothing, even when in a context where one would think them compelled to say something. I know I asked people to refrain from public consolatory gestures, particularly at work, but there are private forums, arenas, opportunities. I  am, honestly, saddened--even angered--by the seeming indifference. Am I entitled? Yes, I think so. I really do.

     Atticus Finch says, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." I have to think that people are either a) unable to "climb into my skin" (e.g. "He was just a dog") and/or b) unwilling to do so because it is uncomfortable and awkward.

     I swear, swear, that I will not be one of these people because I know how much these people have hurt me. If someone--whether he be a Facebook friend or best friend--loses someone he loves--whether it be a hamster or a husband--I will say something from now on. Even if I risk saying the wrong thing, and even if it makes me uncomfortable to do so, I will do my best to show support, to empathize, to climb in others' skin and walk around in it.

C.  Appreciation

     For as many people who did nothing, there are triple as many who did all sorts of wonderful somethings. One friend sent me a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Another sent me my first Pandora charm, the letter "H." There have been condolence cards in the mail every day, even from the most unexpected places and sources. There have been private messages and public words of comfort, like this one, which I must have read hundreds of times:


"I know that lots of people in the world have pets, but not every pet owner has the kind of bond that you have with Huan.

And I know that Huan is extraordinary. His spirit is clear in your words, in your pictures, and in his face.

But I also know that the bond you have with him is not merely a consequence of his extraordinary spirit. That bond is also a consequence of your spirit, of your extraordinary ability to open your home and life to welcome him. Whatever goodness he possesses is equally present in you, and it does and will endure in you, because it was genuinely part of you all along."


Or this one:

"I have never had a dog, but I still relate completely to the grief that you are feeling. It is real. The love that you and Huan have for each other is unconditional--in many ways, it is probably less complicated than any other love you've ever felt. How could you not miss that with your whole heart and soul?"


I am so grateful for such beautiful gestures, words, and people. I swear I would be a bawling heap on the floor right now if it weren't for them.

And then, of course, there is David. I could have never anticipated how much David would grieve the loss of Huan.  (David has always loved Huan, but Huan always was a true "Mama's boy.") And I never could have anticipated how much I would need to share the experience of grieving with him.  David has cried with me, just about every day since Huan died.  He has spent hours sorting through pictures with me, making 62 trips to Target to purchase the perfect frames with me, watching videos of healthy Huan with me, etc. I am so grateful to not have to go through this alone.

I am also grateful for David's selflessness, always, but especially now. In the midst of his own tears and utter devastation, he has told me how sorry he is for me.  He has held me and loved me and told me every day how proud he is of me. (If you know me and know of my relationship with Huan, you probably count yourself among those who thought I would be committed by now; basic day-today-functioning, then, is something to celebrate.) David works 12-20 hour shifts almost every day, and every day he still manages to show me I am his first priority. And, despite the fact that he is so overextended, he happily does things to make my life easier and my grief more manageable. Our cat, for example, has this rare mouth problem, which has taken a backseat to Huan's issues these past few months. He needs to be seen by the vet who used to treat Huan before Huan began treatment with my cousins. I can't bear the thought of telling the old vet that Huan is gone, so David-- in between work and school, and work and school, and work and school and a little bit of sleep--is going to assume the emotional burden so that I don't have to. David is the best thing that ever happened to me. I always knew that, but losing Bubba afforded me a friendly reminder to not take his goodness for granted. And for that--and always for David--I am grateful.

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One of my friends, in response to my confession referenced in letter A, told me I needed to "live, love, and learn." This is me trying.

Happy Birthday

Today is Huan's birthday. He would have been seven years old.

When he was just a puppy, not even six months old, David decorated our apartment on my 24th birthday when I was at work (more on the awesomeness of David later), and I came home to this:

What a handsome birthday boy. (And I love that he isn't even a half-year old and looks the size of a full grown lab.)

I had hoped--and had really thought--that he would be here today. I kept pleading, "Plllllease let him see his birthday." To whom? God. Air. David. Anyone and anything. I just didn't want to have to say, "Huan died when he was six." I wanted him to be seven. Really, I wanted him to live forever. But six? Six hurts. Six sucks.

I would have fed Bubba a steak today. Cuddled him. Rubbed his ears. Walked him if he were able. Decorated with streamers, maybe, and then let him eat them with his steak and a side of pens and pants. (Not really, but he would have definitely been pleased.) There would have been doggy cake. There would have been love.

But instead of spending the day with Huan, I had to settle for making the day about Huan. Grace and I took a walk--not just any walk, but the Bubba route, and then I vowed never to walk that route again until March 30, 2012. I talked to her about him most of the way; I tried to teach her to say "Bubba" when we got home; and I watched her smile and coo as I showed her his pictures after lunch. I made a donation in his honor to the SPCA, which I will certainly do every year. 

There were tears yesterday, and there will be tears tomorrow, but there were happy moments today--there was love today--because that's what Huan deserves. A happy birthday. A celebration of his beautiful life.

Happy Birthday, Bubba Love. Mama loves you, today and always.

Post-Post Mortem

I created this blog to honor my dog when I knew I was losing him. My intent was to write only one post, his tribute, on February 22, 2011. Then, when he passed away this past Saturday, 3/26, I could not bear the thought of entertaining multiple questions about how he was doing, so I posted notice of his death and a link to it on Facebook. I guess that’s what they call “ripping the bandaid quickly,” though it’s been more of a slow tear. Not everyone is on Facebook, and not everyone has read my posts. Yesterday, Monday, for example, one of the secretaries at my school noticed me crying. I had to explain, and explanations turned into hysterics. And today, by total coincidence, at the end of my day, one of my students asked how my dog was, and I had to say the words aloud: “I actually had to put him to sleep on Saturday.” I didn’t cry just then, though, because I didn’t want to make him feel bad. I thanked him for asking and told him it is “hard,” and then I cried the whole car ride home.

I have decided to keep up with this blog. I need somewhere to put the pain and the experience of life without Huan. Maybe no one will read it. And that is OK. What matters is that I need to write it. And maybe people will read it and think, “He was just a dog.” And that’s OK, too. My response, if I felt inclined to give one, would be that those people probably don’t have a dog. Dog owners don’t say “just a dog” because they know two things, first and foremost: 1. They no more own a dog than they own their family. 2. A relationship with a dog is man’s greatest exercise in humility. An honest comparison of species renders man just human.

More importantly, I would say to those people that they surely have never known Huan.

To Friends:

We said our goodbyes to Bubba last night.

If you will see me in person, especially at work, please refrain from any sort of consolatory gestures. I am so very grateful for the love and support, but I don’t think could handle hugs or even words of comfort offered in public. I will crack. It is still too raw and too painful. I am only publishing news now because I can’t bear to answer questions from multiple people about how Huan is doing. I can tell you all that he is at peace. I asked him to tell me when it was time, and he did. It was much, much too soon. But it was his time.

And to my sweet, sweet Bubba:

"Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet Prince. 
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

I will love you forever, Huan. From the depths of my soul, thank you for blessing my life with yours.

Diina Dog Days: For the Love of Bubba

I am going to have to say goodbye to a piece of my heart soon. And I don’t know how it will ever be okay.

My dog is a good dog. I know all people say that about their dogs. I have had dogs before. And I have loved them all. They all possessed endearing, distinguishing characteristics. But--as I think is often the case with humans--their greatest attributes also proved to be their tragic flaws. Max, my first dog, a rescued mutt, was protective, so much so that he bit anyone who came within ten feet of me. Fritz, our Dachshund, was unbelievably brilliant, and also therefore incredibly obstinate and defiant in an indisputably calculated way.  Cocoa, our rescued Cocker, was incredibly loyal, though more to my dad than to anyone else; and, as was the case with Max, Cocoa deemed most people a threat to his family. Barnaby, my Bassett, was a sweet simpleton who never deemed anyone a threat; probably didn’t know how to bite; and surely would have licked anyone with whom he came in contact, including robbers, gunmen, serial killers, and the like.

Huan is different. He is all virtue, no vice. He is goodness dogified. See, this kind of goodness could never be personified. It is too good. It is the kind of goodness that is transcendent, that typifies one’s soul, not just one’s ostensible comportment and demeanor. It’s the kind of goodness that resonates and reverberates in the world, even now, in the midst of so much sadness, when I can barely see past my tears to type.

The tears, at least the cause of them, began on August 6^th, 2010, when I noticed a spot of blood on my dining room floor. One spot of blood amounted to months of massive nose bleeds. Weekly, my house looked like a crime scene. There have been tests and innumerable vet visits and so many tears; there has been hope, always followed by utter despair. Something is in his nose, and now, we fear, in his brain. The muscle in his head has atrophied; he has lost weight. And, this past week, on February 15^th, 2011, he started having seizures. I don’t think I could ever really explain to anyone what watching this all over the course of these months has done to me, and the purpose of this is not to try. Shakespeare once said, “So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” With his earthly demise relatively imminent, I want to give life to the kindest, gentlest, sweetest, most gracious, decent, precious soul I will ever know.  I want to honor him the best way I know how. It pains me and humbles me to know that he is so much more deserving than I am capable of conveying and giving him credit for. Someone of Huan’s caliber surely deserves Shakespeare…

My boy was born on March 30, 2004. I remember when David and I went to Pennsylvania to get him 8 weeks later.  On the five hour car ride there, we saw this beautiful hawk, and I cried. I don’t really know why.  We had just decided we would name our new dog Huan after the war hound in The Silmarillion, and maybe the regal animal image of the hawk combined with the majestic expectation of my Mastiff were just so overwhelming.  Maybe I was just already in love with him, and the hawk had nothing to do with my tears.  It’s funny, though, “Huan.”  He never was much of a war hound.  Much, much more like a Bubba.  My sweet Bubba Lova, and the true exemplar of “gentle giant.”

He did give us a run for our money in the beginning, though.  He appeared to be this timid little thing and tried to sleep in my shoe the whole car ride home (though he really wasn’t little at 22 lbs. and did have some difficulty maneuvering his beefy self into a sandal). Then, when we got him home...sianara, Jekyll; enter Hyde. David and I were both on our computers when everything went black. Bubba chewed through an electrical cord. And within one week he ate a woman’s razor.  And thus began his intimate and enduring relationship with various other items that had no place in a dog’s belly.  In the years that followed, there were socks (many, many socks), bras, underwear, paper towels, pens--and, I still cannot believe it--an actual pair of pants. PANTS.  Somehow they always made their way out.  Even the pants.

He was a bit of a punk as a puppy, too--feisty, spastic, hyper. I was concerned he had dominance issues (even as I write that I am chuckling), so I took him to a “behavior specialist.”  (If you know me, you know it is I who am feisty, spastic, hyper, and it is totally consistent with my character to take a puppy to a behavioral specialist for behaving like a puppy.) She told me he was just really, really smart.  And then I took him to another behavior specialist (yes, it’s true), who also said he was really, really smart. So then Bubba and I spent a few months in obedience school challenging ourselves and aspiring to achieve our potential, and our teacher often used us as models of good training for the rest of the class. I always was an overachiever. And Bubba always has been incredibly obedient and, incidentally, very submissive. In puppy play group, he spent the hour sleeping, unless a dog got too aggressive with another dog.  Then he got up, walked over, barked, and separated the two.  When he was satisfied that the situation was successfully mitigated, he went back to sleep. Bubbas always need their beauty sleep, about 19 hours a day of it.

When not sleeping, Huan is eating; though, to this day, he will not touch a scrap of food, even his own, unless I have given him permission. David and I can leave our plates on the coffee table and walk away for…well, probably forever. Just the other day, after a “spa” treatment (a euphemism for nail cutting, ear cleaning, and teeth brushing), I left his customary bone, a treat for good behavior during spa treatments, on the ground.  I got preoccupied when the baby started screaming, left, changed her diaper, played a bit, and came back to the living room to find him sitting and staring at it, waiting for permission to take it. I couldn’t be more proud of him. (The fact that he needs permission to eat food but stealthily devours a pair of pants...well, that’s just part of the Bubba charm.)

I can’t imagine my life without my Bubba. I will miss my Bubba cuddles, the way he rests his head on my chest when I watch TV or nuzzles it in close under my chin when I sit on the floor.  I will miss seeing him greet me every day at the door, inexplicably running around frantically trying to find a bone. I will miss kissing him goodnight, and I will miss seeing his big, eager, adorable face first thing in the morning. I will miss his smooches, particularly the obligatory and bashful ones when I insist, “Mama kiss… Mama KISS!”  I will miss walking with him beside me, never pulling or trying to lead, in our little pack.  I will miss the wag of his tail and his big ears when I ask if he wants to go for a walk or if he wants a treat. I will miss him following me around the house every time I leave the room, especially as I vacuum. I will miss seeing my daughter know him and love him, and I will miss the chance to watch him patiently allowing her to pull on his ears and topple over his gigantic body.  I will miss his heart. Every day, I will miss his heart. 

I am so very sorry for all the walks we didn’t take, for all the times I was too busy for a cuddle, for all the times I was impatient and told him to “get out of my way” when I vacuumed.  And I am so sorry that there is even a chance that he will leave this world never knowing or being able to conceive of how much I love him; of how he has enriched my life beyond measure; of how utterly, ineffably blessed I am to have been able to call him mine.

Mark Twain once said in a personal letter, “The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.” I don’t know when my gentleman will go to his heaven, but I hope I will see him there someday--big, bright eyed, healthful, with no trace of blood or impairment, only drool and a stick or an article of clothing dangling from his jowls--walking along some no-leash-required path with Twain. Whenever he does leave me, I know that the depth of my grief will be commensurate only with the depth of my love and gratitude for this amazing creature. I don’t really know how to navigate my way through that kind of pain yet. It hurts so much already. I know I can only promise to love him forever, to fill my daughter’s baby book with his pictures, to read her this someday and tell her how much he was loved, to put this modest tribute out there so others may know, too.

And, in the end, maybe that’s how it will be okay, losing a piece of my heart, I mean. Because I will remember. And because in remembering, his goodness will endure.