DIARY ON THE DEATH OF A DOG

Vivienne Elanta

12th Feb 2002

Who would have thought that the little four legged Jack Russell would bring us so much joy over the past eight years. I still remember the day clearly, when Lana, my daughter, brought this frightened and abandoned being into our house. It did not take much effort on his part to worm his way into our hearts. Being covered in lots of brown spots, it was obvious to name him Spotty.

Now Spotty is dying. I am bereft. It feels like a hole being carved out of my heart. It feels strange to have left him behind on Thursday, seemingly healthy and three days later, after facilitating a “Council of All Beings”, to return home to find him in a state of ill health. I am still in shock. I expected him to life another 3-4 years before dying of old age, instead he is dying of an aggressive heart tumour.

At the moment it is not easy to sit down and write down my thoughts and feelings, as it is hard to concentrate. I find myself deeply immersed in my feeling world, which is second nature to me.

I have been reflecting today on the way in which western society deals with death, dying and grief. I am coming to the conclusion that we do not handle this area of life very well at all. Denial and suppression of our response to pain is so widespread, so deeply entrenched in the western psyche. It is this very denial, which has brought us to the brink of ecological, economic and social collapse.

Spotty is lying quietly at my feet as I type these words. He seems peaceful. I am meant to be starting on my critical thinking essays, but find it hard even to write simple journal entries. I will keep on stumbling and fumbling for words to express this most profound journey, because if I don’t I will not be able to recapture much of the moment to moment insights, and experiences, interactions and reflections.

This present moment is about my relationship with this beautiful more than human being, a loyal four legged little friend. This present moment is about my relationship with death. This present moment is about my relationship with myself. This present moment is about my relationship with life itself

13th Feb

Spotty seems better today. As I am sitting on the floor here, being nudged and pestered by him to throw the ball for him to fetch, I am aware of the preciousness of life and how death can take it all away. He is just so gorgeous and alive in his being. He does not seem upset about dying, rather he engages me every second in living fully in the moment, seizing very delicious moment.

Today a woman on TV said that: “grief lived openly has great power to heal”. I so agree with her. During the past few days I have been living my grief openly for the whole world to see.

I love naming what really is. We may need to give him an injection to ease his death, rather than saying that we will “put him to sleep”. Or, “if anything happens to him”. We are in such denial and find it hard to call a spade a spade. It is easier to say that we are eating mutton, than to say we are eating dead sheep. Only a patriarchal society could have come up with phrases and words that avoid truth telling and naming for what it is.

How does one face death? Is death a friend? an enemy? Am I to fear death? I ponder and ponder. And its quite simply. Death is a friend. Death is inevitable. Death comes to everything. Death is holy. Without death there is no renewal of life. Death is an integral part of life. . Every living being, is a temporary node in the flow of life, slowly unravelling to become another temporary node expressed in another form. Spotty too will unravel to become the new growth on the mulberry tree and the mulberry rolling on my tongue.

Spotty just got up from the warm patch at my feet. He is listening and alert to sounds in the street. His body slightly shaking. I can’t help but want to stop writing now to put my arms around him reassuring him of my deep love for him.

I feel so grateful to my women friends who have been sending him Reiki almost non- stop during the last few days. It’s interesting that it’s largely the women in societies who do the nurturing and caring and healing, while the men are out there doing the “real” work.

18th Feb

The last few days just past so fast. My whole life revolved around Spotty. In the mornings just before 7am he begs to go to the park to hang out with his doggy friends. Not to tire him I carry him there and on the way back up the steep hill. This dog wants to live. He engages me in play, especially with the ball. I wonder wether Parson Russell thought to torture us two legged creatures, when he bred the Jack Russell. To the last moment of his life he will pursue his obsession with fetching balls.

Today was the most difficult day. I had to take Spotty to the vet again to extract fluids from his heart and abdomen, in order to relieve the pressure. He always brightens up afterwards. The vet told me today that he resisted having a needle inserted, so he had to give him a local anaesthetic, saying that it is upsetting for Spot.

I feel alone and don’t like to reach out for support in a society that is so anthropocentric. Everyone has a different opinion as to what I should be doing. Who I am to make a decision as to how long Spotty lives. We go out of our way to keep a human alive, using the most horrendous treatments such as chemotherapy, but when it comes to animals we are quick to “put them out of their misery” so to speak. What about asking the dog? What does he want? I know he wants to live and play ball with me. I also know that he does not want to suffer. If I give him the lethal injection he will not suffer any more. If I let nature take its course he may suffer terribly before dying. If I have fluids extracted from him he feels miserable with the treatment, but feels better for it after, ready to run around again. It feels like navigating through a tricky terrain, always being on the look out as to what needs to be done in any given time.

I feel so tired from only sleeping 2 hours last night. He woke me up after midnight. I crawled out of bed and made another bed on the floor next to him, holding his little head in my hand and stroking him with the other.

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Spot was euthanized three days later. The results of his death are told by Vivienne in “There is a Story to that Mulberry Tree”