Creek Running North

I would tell you to quit being like that, if I thought for a minute you could, and if I were presumptuous enough to tell you what to do in the first place.

I’m just sorry, is all.  I’m sorry he is gone.  I’m sorry the pain of missing him is so much.

the task is to endure, until you can do something besides endure.

holding you in the light. hugs to becky, too.

I’m sorry the pain of missing him is so much.

I think it hurts exactly the right amount, to tell you the truth. I can breathe and feed myself and distract myself six hours a day or so.

I keep a small tape recorder with me all the time as part of my writing. I record thoughts, ideas, etc. pretty much every day. And then later, tediously, transcribe them.

One of the entry-categories some years back was “Remembering Ranger.” After I lost Ranger, my first dog, anytime a happy memory-moment occurred to me—like the times we would cross a nearby stream together, me on a log and him walking sideways through the neck-high water—I would record it.

It made him realerto me for the long years beyond him. I have now lived without him for almost as long as I lived with him. Unbelievable. And yet, thanks in part to those recordings, I can still bring to mind the stiff feel of his fur, the smell of him, the taste of his personality and the ways it mixed together with mine.

Chris, I think you have the makings of a book on Zeke. You may already have enough for a slim book, but with a bit of work, you could have a substantial one. After you heal a bit more, or whenever you feel ready, you’d really be offering the world a gift by relating some of this to a wider audience.

I’d call the writing you do poetry – except I don’t get into poetry that much. This is blood and brain and heart, a gut-grabbing prose that paints subtle feelings with words of unsubtle brilliance. The images you invoke draw the reader off toward visuals of natural splendor, but the subtext of powerful feelings wait in ambush. They lurk like tigers hidden in the wild tiger lilies, and oh man do they grab into you.

I’ve toyed with the idea that really creative people are all autism-variants of some kind or another. They walk around and talk and think like normal people, but their brains are wired up for savant-level performance in the area of their art, so that the things they do look magic to the rest of us.

The piece you link to here, “Leaning,� is a data point that feels to me like proof of the concept. This piece is stratospherically beyond the normal, something I can imagine writing ONLY because I can understand it as a reader. But the bones of it, the roots of it, I can’t imagine generating them myself. It’s magic to me because it’s so wonderful and deep and bright I can’t see where it came from.

Whew. Thank you.

A little followup, and a SECOND thank-you:

Another of my funny ideas is that we’re all natural multiple personalities. In some few people, that ability plays out as uncontrollable sickness. But in most of us, it’s simply an everyday tool, so natural it goes unremarked, that allows us to understand and predict and live with each other.

Separated as we are by the gulfs of space required by existence as discrete individuals, and doomed to an impoverished closeness that can be mediated – poorly – only by physical contact that is never quite close enough, or words that never quite reach our most-intimate selves, we use these models of them-in-our-heads as sounding boards for our relationship, as working tools for applying our compassion and caring and love to the them-in-the-outside.

We actually imprint the personalities of the people around us. We echo them, we create a simulation in our own heads of them as they are to us. We record and recreate their voices, their moods, their expressions and reactions. We BECOME them as much as we can, and the instantiation we internalize becomes a little-noticed subordinate aspect of us, called forth only when needed.

Because we’ve been presented with the idea of multiple personality as a sickness (or, in a different way, as the silly, mistaken idea of “spirits�), we never come to think of it as an asset that might be used in other ways. And yet ... I think it can be. Played out as they are in the same brains that create them, I think these extra selves can be as real to us as we ourselves are.

Consciously knowing about this has allowed me to cherish the Ranger-in-me, and the Tito-in-me in a special way. I still get to love them in those warm moments when I focus on them, every bit as much as I love the people who are still a part of my life. They’re still with me, still HERE, in an oddly real way.

It sounds cool and artificial when I describe it as a mere mental process, but it feels undeniably warm inside me as I experience it. As much as they ever can be, but more than I imagined they could be, Tito and Ranger are in this way still mine. 

There’s a magnificent alchemy in all this. The end result of this multiple personality thing, the way it really works out, is that by loving Ranger and Tito and at the same time having them in my head, I have found two new ways of loving ME.

Zeke’s still there with you too, buddy, in all his nobility and caprice and grandness and peccadillo. Because he’s now, forever, a real part of you.

Thanks to your gifting me with Zeke, to making him real for me through your writing, I’ve come to also love him, and me, more.

Reading that post again has me thinking about “Hank,” a lost dog we found on Christmas Day. I only knew Hank for a short four days - the time he stayed with us before going to a foster home where he’s waiting for a new family.

Hank is a big boy - Rhodesian Ridgeback and possibly shepherd. We didn’t keep him because our nearly 13 year old dog is not interested in sharing his family with another canine. Chris, is diabetic, blind, has heart problems so we weren’t willing to turn his life upside down.

But what a difficult decision it was to give Hank up.

I wrote to the rescue that took him in to try to give her a sense of this sweet gentle dog who I fell in love with in days…

If there’s any indication from anyone else that he has been an escape artist, it must be because he was in a bad place. Because the last thing he wanted to do was escape us. I would let him out the door from the garage to the yard and he would park himself on the tiny cement slab in front of that door and wait for me to come back for him. He never once pawed a single gate or fence board.

Sit down and talk to him and he would flop himself down against a thigh and turn up his belly for rubs and pets. I think if someone would have been willing to pet him all day that would have been okay with him.

He seemed most comfortable with people, a little intimidated by other dogs.

He is also very good at understanding what is said to him. At night, he would get lonely out in the garage and start first to whimper and then to howl softly. I would go out and tell him to “lay down in his bed.” He would run over and plop himself down in bed and then I’d tell him to go to bed, that he had to shush, to be quiet. He would look up at me intently and then do as I asked. We wouldn’t hear another peep out of him the rest of the night. Pretty much any time I told him to get in his bed, he would, at least for a minute.

His housebreaking and manners were flawless. He could spend the night in the garage with kayaks, a motorcycle, cat stand, tools. He never emptied either bowel or bladder and didn’t touch a single thing in the garage or the yard. No digging, no chewing, no barking - I never once heard him bark.

He would get up close, excited about being fed. But I could just tell him “back” and he would step back and wait patiently for his food to be dished up. I could put my hand in his dish while he was eating, take it away from him… no food aggression at all. Or any other kind of aggression.

He was always very excited to get in our SUV - acted like it was familiar and settled down for the ride, including the two hours to Santa Rosa. We even took him into a pet store one day and he did great.

Every time I let him out of the garage, he would streak down the side yard, weave between two trash cans, and stop mid-yard to look back at me like “Now what shall we do?” And streak back down the side yard when we headed for the garage for the night. He just loved being with people. Anything we wanted to do was fine as long as he could be with us.

I suspect, based on our experiences, that we found him very near where he was dumped if that’s what happened and that he likely was dumped that morning. He was laying on the asphalt in the middle of a large parking lot among industrial buildings not far from the street. After watching him sit patiently at the garage door waiting to be let back in, I suspect he would have done the same thing if let out there. Curl up and wait for them to come back for him.

Well, it’s probably obvious, but he is just one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. Under any other circumstances, I not only would have kept him but I might not have tried very hard to find his previous owner! :) We both just fell in love with him and found it very painful to give him up, even though it was the right thing to do for our dog.

Now I only get to visit Hank here: http://ridgebackrescue.info/ORG/adopt_avail.html.

I just hope that he finds someone to give him the love he deserves and so desperately wants. I can’t understand how anyone could abandon Hank or Zeke, how anyone could fail to appreciate the soul of these dogs and the gift they give. I know I’m a better person for loving all these dogs. And that life without our Chris will cut me through.

I visit Zeke’s image here often. I can’t miss him the way you do, I know, but I do miss him and take some comfort in knowing that he truly had the best the world has to offer a good dog.

If you need a vacation, I hear Vermont is lovely this time of year.

Love love.

I’m sorry you feel this way, Chris, but I’m sure you have more to do than just sit around waiting to die (at least to the extent that any of us have more to do than that).  Maybe you could incorporate Zeke into some of your other work, maybe a larger project on humanity’s relation to the rest of the natural world, or maybe including a chapter on this theme in your book on the Joshua Tree?  Just a suggestion, maybe a way to start to move forward without feeling like you’re betraying Zeke.

I get a big lump in my throat reading that. When my mom died I spent hours visualizing the scraps of time we spent together at the end (as it was the closest we ever got); as many details as I could, as if visualizing the particulars might bring her back.

Death sucks and there’s nothing for it but to let yourself feel what you do and express that and know that you’re cared for.

I’m sorry, though not surprised, you’re in so much pain.

Every time one of my cats dies, my memories are so fresh, so clear, so tactile, it seems insanely unfair that I can’t reach into the memory - into my mind’s eye - and pull them out, alive and well again. 

I think the first year is the worst.  All those anniversaries.  I swear to you, it does get less painful.  With time.  And love.

Grief takes time. You are in the worst part. It will get better with time, even though it doesn’t feel that way yet.

(o)

(This particular thinking-of-you pebble is a small round rock, flecked with mica.  It was found leaning against a granite boulder, on the edge of a desert wash.)

This is not unexpected in the first of the four stages of grieving: shock, denial, anger, and resolution. What bothers me is the denial this could happen; from your blog this was not unexpected.

I had a dog die unexpectedly on a Christmas Day. I was totally at a loss; my neighbor graciously came over and put him down. I still feel a sense of loss thinking of him. But there is/was no way I want him to suffer anymore than he did while life ebbed from him.

As a reincarnationist, I am assured he has likely moved into another existence. I only hope I helped him reach a higher level of existence.

We have to let go of the past. Grieving is necessary but waiting to “follow him” is not gonna help his or your karma.

The living need us. The dead no longer do, to put it crassly. I hope Ilyka is wrong and you’ll be receptive to our suggestions. And Linda’s right on.

Maybe it’s lame to bud in here, but I get the impression a few people can’t handle being a witness to another person’s grief.

For those of you full of advice on how Chris (or anyone) should express themselves or smarten up, try putting yourself in his shoes. He just lost one of the great loves of his life. 

Grieving isn’t a linear process.  The agony comes in waves. If a sentence like “I’m killing time...” disturbs you, move on. And remember that you can move on. He can’t. Not right now.

I’m so sorry that you are hurting so much, Chris. Thank you for the link - I haven’t cried in months, I must’ve needed to do that.

Hugs and love love love to you and Becky,

Sravana, w/small dog in lap

Chris -

I can’t think of a thing useful to write except that my thoughts are with you and I am so sorry.

Such great love, such immense grief’s no surprise.

What Lesley said above in #14.  Any one of us can think we know what you’re feeling.  I’ve made that mistake myself, more than once I fear.  But even though you’re better at conveying your feelings than just about anyone else, we don’t really know.  Although I have loved animals deeply, your connection with Zeke seems different from what I’ve experienced. 

I like what Hank Fox said, in his second comment.  It accounts for the feelings of presence I’ve had after loved ones (canine, feline and human) passed on.  And I like the idea that I can contine to try to take the simple gentleness from my beloved Tober and have it be part of me.

I just wanted to share some good news about our foundling Hank…

I heard today that he found a home! In Berkeley with a family! I’m so happy for him and want to thank Elizabeth Akers of Northern California Ridgeback Rescue for taking him in and giving him a wonderful new life.

Another amiable good dog gets a new chance at happiness.

Hurrah for Hank! With a name like that, you just know he deserves something good. :D

I made a huge mistake and went to look at Hank’s web page when you posted it, Natalie.

What a sweetheart.

So happy to hear his good news.

Hurrah for Hank! With a name like that, you just know he deserves something good. :D

I agree! LOL

I made a huge mistake and went to look at Hank’s web page when you posted it, Natalie.

There’s a quality to Hank that didn’t get caught in the photos - a sweet goofy fun-loving quality. But the way he listens… there’s something of Zeke’s intelligence and regard for humans in him. I just hope he did as well in his permanent home as Zeke did.

Chris, I was thinking about your sadness last night, and it occurred to me that it’s important that you guard against becoming depressed during this time. I was heartened to read your most recent post, because moving the body is very helpful in keeping emotions from becoming stuck.

As far as Hank, I also made the mistake of looking at his page. If I’d lived nearby I might’ve brought him home! So glad to hear that he’s got a new home. he sounds like a stellar dog.

Sravana, your comment on your site was lovely.

I saw this story for the first time a couple days ago, and thought of you, Chris. It’s not meant as consolation (I don’t think it has much), and whatever wisdom it might have, I ain’t qualified to expound on. I just like it (saw it in the liner notes of the soundtrack to Peter Brooke’s The Mahabharata).

The Markandeya Story

A long time ago all living creatures had perished. The world was no more than a sea - a gray, misty, icy swamp. One man remained, all alone, spared from the devastation. His name was Markandeya. He walked and walked in the stale water, exhausted, finding no shelter anywhere, no trace of life. He was in despair, his throat taut with inexpressible sorrow. Suddenly, not knowing why, he turned and saw behind him a tree rising out of the marsh, a fig tree, and at the foot of the tree a very beautiful, smiling child. Markandeya stopped, breathless, reeling, unable to understand why the child was there.

And the child said to him: “I see you need to rest. Come into my body.”

The old man suddenly experienced utter disdain for long life. The child opened his mouth, a great wind rose up, an irresistible gust swept Markandeya towards the mouth. Despite himself he went in, just as he was, and dropped down in the child’s belly. There, looking round, he saw a stream, trees, herds of cattle. He saw women carrying water, a city, streets, crowds, rivers. Yes, in the belly of the child he saw the entire earth, calm, beautiful; he saw the ocean, he saw the limitless sky. He walked for a long while, for more than a hundred years, without reaching the end of the body. Then the wind rose up again, he felt himself drawn upward; he came out through the same mouth and saw the child under the fig tree.

The child looked at him with a smile and said, “I hope you have had a good rest.”

Natalie, thank you for your comment. I was simply touched (having lost a dog in 2002). The pain never really goes away, does it?