closed doors and an empty bowl

It's been a week-- a week since we said a gut-wrenching goodbye to our dear little Maggie. The uncertainty of our upcoming transition to uprootedness, her anxiety, increasing feebleness, and especially her struggle to breathe because of a collapsing trachea demanded a humane response. We could not add to her suffering. Our vet assured us that it was the last gift we could give her, a peaceful death surrounded by those who loved her. It was awful and it was beautiful.

The memory of accompanying her to the end is seared in our minds. I can still feel her body grow heavy in my arms as she experienced the effects of the first injection to relax her. I can feel the tickle of the tears coursing down my nose, tears Carl had to wipe because my arms held our girl. I hear the sobs of Jenny Kate and my own voice as I chokingly speak love and assurance to that precious dog soul. I see her loss of control of her tongue and the slight twitching of her head until her body grew quiet, and I placed her gently on the table. I see the grief on Carl's face.

A collapsing vein extended the second step in the process, which was agonizing, but a dominant memory is the voice of Dr. Croy speaking comforting words as she pushed the syringe and the lethal liquid did its job, "You'll be chasing squirrels, "she whispered, "and we'll follow you, but not for awhile." And then she was gone, her body still. The stethoscope confirmed what we knew.

Her suffering was over, but not ours. We continue to look for her, to miss the familiar interactions of fourteen years, to remember her licking our faces, the frolicking and dancing of her youth, her howling at the piano, the uncontrolled excitement when meeting another dog, her obsession with people food, the comfort and undying love she gave us from the very beginning even to the end when she had little energy or tolerance for daily activity.

It's been a week, and I just saw something I wrote weeks ago but never published. Closed doors and empty bowls--

She doesn't like closed doors or an empty bowl.

Maggie has become a little odd in her old age. She seems intent on making sure she has food to eat, ravenously devouring any people food she can manage to acquire and insisting that her bowl has dog food in it even if she doesn't want to eat it. We're all getting soft in our indulgence of her cravings.

Another idiosyncrasy she has developed is an anxiety about closed doors. She wants to ensure that she has access to all the "safe places" in the house. She has conditioned us to leave every door open, at least the ones that she knows go somewhere, because of her incessant scratching if she finds one closed. She even scratches on the exterior door in the kitchen --sometimes to alert us to her empty bowl that sits beside it and sometimes to assure herself that she could get out if she needed to.

How much am I like this at some level? I am really seeking the comfort of open doors and full bowls. I'm finding it a daily battle to fight the anxiety that accompanies a situation that seems to have no solution, no relief. It is a difficult thing to look at closed doors and think that there is no safe place or no way out. I desperately want to "scratch" at the doors and find it a thing of discipline to sit in patient trust. And even though I am blessed with all manner of daily bread, I still long for empty bowls to be filled.

Today I saw the connection between me and Maggie. Maggie always had a joyful spirit,  a bounce in her step--laughing through the days with eagerness to please. In her youth, she would bound to our side, finding joy in every moment, filled with love, excited about life,  confident in being loved. She thought that everyone loved her and was an exuberant,  faithful, white ball of fluff that leapt into our hearts, therapy for battle-worn souls so many years ago. However, she struggles now, fighting anxiety that sometimes overwhelms her, sleeping most of the time, and waking us up too early in the morning, but she is still giving to me in this sacramental picture. She reminds me that though she may not realize it, her anxiety is not rooted in reality. In reality, she is loved, protected, and provided for. She has all that she needs.  Even the thunder can not harm her,  regardless of how loud it cracks. There is no reason to seek the shelter behind a closed door. Her food source is abundant, new every morning.

And so it is with me, regardless of how scary or uncomfortable it feels.

The little container

Moving again. Another painful purging of possessions and loss of structure and direction--but that's for another post. 

I was cleaning out the long closet in Carl's office dubbed, "The Gallery," because of all the wall hangings opposite the wall of bookshelves. A few storage containers had found their home for the past four years on the floor of this room. Who knows why they landed here instead of the high shelf in the garage. Most of these containers were large, but one small plastic container kept the large ones company. I had dragged this little container around the East Coast for more than three decades, carrying Stephanie's clothes everywhere I sojourned. What would I do now? I was in a "throw away" mood. In previous moves I had not questioned this box, hadn't opened it since I had laid those clothes to rest 35 years ago. However, the circumstances of this move demanded practicality, and I was on the lookout for anything I could release. So I opened the box...I held one little outfit in my hand and emotion rushed like a torrent. How could the feelings still be so strong? Maybe it was the trough of loss we had been in for two months, but I could almost feel that tiny body in my hands. Too much.

I replaced that little outfit in the little container and closed the lid. I taped it and labeled it, Stephanie's clothes. I don't know when I will give up that little plastic container, but it won't be this move.