Reflections
Sunday
February 23, 2024
What a wonderful bed I slept in last night. A king size. Now I wonder if the new queen mattress we just ordered was a wise choice. In the king, we didn’t bump up against one another, but we were still close enough to touch.
Outside the sliding glass door of our Paradise Island suite, in the Bahamas, was a veranda encircled by palm trees. Nestled atop the palms were grey doves, cooing. Graceful and majestic, fronds crackled in the breeze. The air, cooler than I thought it would be, brushed my skin with humidity.
It was a perfect place to write. Yet, words did not come easily to the page. Not even when I drank strong dark coffee and pushed myself to scribble into the spiral notebook. Only the mundane squeaked out ––the weather, the flight, what we ate for dinner, and, then nibbled on for breakfast. Despite Mother Nature’s fine offerings, I was unable to reside in the moment where I ordinarily capture my thoughts. So I got pragmatic and listed questions I might pursue for a one-hour talk I’m giving in May. I wrote six pages that I’ll look at later. My pragmaticism warmed me up.
In another sitting, I asked, “What am I noticing about myself while away from home?” Answer: I had a terrific sleep, something that doesn’t always happen. On Paradise Island, where walkways off the resort were irregular, I paid extra attention. I didn’t want to twist an ankle. I scrutinized the white-sand beach, where I didn’t see any critters, but in case they were there, I didn’t want to step on one.
For the trip, I had packed a collection of short stories and a novella, but it took me until day five before I could relax to read. What I did most from days one to four, was sleep. I ate regular meals – breakfast, lunch and dinner, something that got dropped during a challenging time with our recent renovation. By day six of our vacation, recovery was beginning to set in. I found myself taking personal stock. Through the course of that turbulent cottage reno, with promises broken, I had worn down. This was on the backdrop of publishing my memoir, Dance into the Light, and then launching it. Fun and excitement, with five launches in five weeks, and a couple of radio talks, was a whirlwind of good energy. At the same time, my husband Jack battled a relentless bug. And that’s why it was a real gift when my lifelong friend Susan threw out the invitation to join her in the Bahamas. The time was right and we didn’t have to think twice.
I held no illusions that a vacation would lighten my heavy heart. Grief work would be on the agenda and lucky for me I had private moments to mourn. Even when Winnie and Zach were alive, no matter the distance or for how long I was away, I missed them. Call it, “home-dog sickness,” and I had it bad. However, their robust greeting at the door and a dual tail-wag warmed my heart. Unconditional love, I hope you know it.
The natural wonders of the Bahama landscape did nothing to diminish the depth of my loss and I won’t say I didn’t anticipate a tough return to our too-silent cottage.
To cheer me up, someone suggested pet-free time could provide freedom to travel. Maybe. I can try. But so far, that’s not how my brain has worked. There is no arguing that pets, especially dogs, can tie a person down. When my parents were alive, they were my most trusted pet sitters. All dogs and cats were considered a part of the nuclear family. For years, our chocolate lab Major, and all four cats––Raspie, Cleo, Billy and Buddy––settled in with them, whether in the city or the cottage. On our return we could expect a little weight gain, and because they all liked to spend time with my dad in his workshop, sawdust in their fur.
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Monday
March 4, 2024
So we could bring Zachary’s ashes home, we traveled south to Heart with Wings, Coulter Mobile Veterinary Services in Barrie. I cried most of the way there, and with Zach’s ashes on my lap, I wept some more on the way back. In memory of Zachary, a donation has been made to the Henry & Friends Memorial Fund. Inside the card, was a lovely quote:
“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; all that we love becomes part of us.”
Beverley Brewer
Zachary’s and Winnie’s ashes, both in lovely wooden urns, sit on a small stool beside one of the couches they considered their own. Jack and I will decide on their final resting place. When I think of the interment for the ashes of my mother and sister Jacquelin, I recall Reverend Ian’s words to me, “It’s time.” He intuited my readiness. The ashes of my mother and sister were placed in side-by-side graves at Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. Jacquelin had left behind the urn of her beloved Portuguese Waterdog, Bella. She was my sister’s soul dog and it is right their ashes rest together.
When beloved pets die and emotional pain hits deep, I’ve heard people say that they will never get another animal. “It’s too hard,” and, “I can’t go through that again.” I get it, however I’m not likely to take this approach. Over eleven years ago when we said goodbye to Major, grief was unsurmountable. With time wounds healed and three months later we sought we prepared to adopt a lab puppy from the same breeder. Our calls were never answered but we soon after heard about a litter in Washago. Father Dog was a chocolate, and Dog Mother, was a yellow. Among the litter of six, were blacks and one chocolate. No yellows. Jack said it was too soon to adopt another chocolate and he picked Zachary. On our way to the car I spotted the ten-year-old boy who was carrying a tiny female pup with a blue collar. On route back home with two puppies, we named our new girl, Winnie. Zachary was called after a favourite old lab I’d spent time with along the Bow River in Alberta.
Some people suggested two dogs was too much. Maybe, but I do not regret one single moment of the ride. Watching two kennelmates grow up together made my heart sing. Everyday.
This gives me closer look into the soul of those you have your experience.