Dogs, Love, and Death

Dear friends have just learned that their beloved young German Shepherd has a probably fatal disease. Their friends share their grief for this beautiful, exceptional animal, though we cannot know the depths of their sorrow; they raised her from being a small puppy, hiked deep into the Sierras with her, romped with her in the snow, watched her in joy at the beach, and exchanged the love only dog lovers know with her every day and night.

This morning I woke up from a dream in which an unknown woman told me "your dog has been hit." I looked over her shoulder toward a nearby yard and saw my precious small white dog standing but clearly hurt. "Oh no!" I cried out as I woke up. Then I saw my precious one sleeping peacefully on our bed as he does every night; still, the dream said "This won't last forever."

In her book of poems about her beloved dogs ("Dog Songs"), Mary Oliver says:

"Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also....We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we cannot give."

I think dogs are our teachers about love and about death. How to love? Unconditionally, without our ego's list of requirements. We humans are slow learners, thanks to our egos: "I'll really love you once you loose/gain those extra pounds, start looking like the girl/guy of my dreams, start making more money, provide me with more status, stop interrupting me, become more/less interested in sex, get your teeth fixed, start agreeing with me on politics/religion/finances/parenting/nutrition/music/sex, stop those arguments which are all your fault, apologize for all the times you've hurt me, appreciate me for a change," etc. etc. etc.

Unconditional love says "I love you exactly the way you are, and I cherish every day we have together." Having personally taken a lifetime to get to this place, I can say for sure there's nothing better in the arena of relationships.

Our dog Rudy scans rooms to see who might need a little extra love, and walks over, wags his tail and offers it. He starts every day with play and kisses, and ends every night with cuddles and kisses; now there's a love model worth following! And in between he never has a bad hair day, never fails to welcome us home as if our return is the greatest thing since the iPhone, is always ready to play, always ready to love, forgives our mistakes instantly, and never holds a grudge.

Even in the best cases, our dogs live relatively short lives; because of that, they offer lessons about death too. They always leave us before we're ready. Death is coming, and whether we're 8 or 80, we get closer to it every day. I trust/know there's incredible beauty on the other side of death, but so far I haven't been given any information about whether our canine friends will be there.

Looking for more ways to understand and accept the inevitable, I've been fascinated lately by the work and life of Philip Toshio Sudo. He wrote wonderful books including Zen Guitar, Zen Sex, and Zen computer. He met and married his true love and lived six "blissful" years in Hawaii with her; they had 3 children. Those kids were 1, 4 and 6 when he was diagnosed with stomach cancer at age 41. He was scheduled to have a devastating surgery in New York on 9/11. He died in 2002. His widow says that one of the books he carried with him spoke of how to be resolute about death. In the way of Zen, Phil apparently accepted his fate, grieving mainly for the pain of the wife and children he had to leave....

Rumi's wisdom helps me the most. He says:

"....The human seed goes down into the ground like a bucket and comes up with some unimagined beauty. Your mouth closes here, and immediately opens with a shout of joy there."