Apr 01 2009
And the little dog laughed
There have been a lot of tears in our house this past week: last Tuesday, March 24, our little corgi dog, Gwennie, died of cancer. She was diagnosed last September with an invasive tumor that started at the gum line and spread into her nasal cavity and up her snout. She retained her beauty and her spirit while cancer grew on her nose and her breathing became more and more labored at night. When we got home from Oregon 
on the 23rd and went to get her at our dog-sitting friend’s, she didn’t bark and jump around as usual, just put her head in Ann’s hands. The tumor had spread into her eye, she seemed in terrible pain. We dosed her with doggy Ibuprofen, and held her for our last evening by the fire… our last evening as a household of four.
Now there are two people and one very lonely corgi left wandering around without this sparky personality who turns out to have been a much bigger “boss” of our daily schedule than any of us realized until she was gone.
Pet grief is a very personal and unique experience. There have been times when it did not seem so hard, as both the dog and I were ready to let go: with Gwennie–it’s huge. She was still young and vibrant, and had more entertaining eccentricities than any other dog I’ve known. She ran the compound: announcing people’s arrival and departures, telling Glory (her sister corgi) when it was time to walk and eat and run into the yard and get into their beds for the night… and she loved life with a capital “L.”
There are several lessons in this to share. One is surrendering to surprise. In my little book of spiritual practice, The Seven Whispers, I talk about three responses to surprise that help us practice spiritual surrender:
- Notice what is really happening.
- Work with what is really happening.
- Accept what is really happening.
For the past seven months this has been a mantra in our lives. On the day of Gwen’s biopsy when we dropped her off I thought, “what is, already is… we are just going to find out.” Then after her diagnosis, when the allopathic vet said it was not treatable, we went to the holistic vet and designed a regimen of diet and supplements that sustained her overall health and vitality while her body worked out its course with the disease. And finally, the last week of her life, we had to accept what was really happening and let her go. We surrendered–and we continue to surrender in the territory of loss and realigning daily patterns.
Another lesson from the past seven months is the reminder to live in the moment, to celebrate each day. The gift of being a dog is living wholeheartedly in the now. For Gwennie, every day was “WOW–I’m up, what’s happening?” She’d sneeze out the night’s congestion and head into the day: let’s run in circles, let’s chase crows, let’s eat, let’s sleep. The gift of being human is being able to tell you this in words, to savor experience over and over again.
I say in Storycatcher, that story organizes life. Watching our other corgi, Glory, I appreciate again the power of story to help me cope. For Glory there is no explanation–just raw absence. We have other realms in which we move: Glory had Gwennie and the vacuum now is huge. 
They were living in a partnership of dogness. Every day for the past nearly 8 years they sniffed the same pee-mail spots, chased the same waves, licked the same cook-pots, endured the same boredom waiting for the next walk.They moved in a twinned rhythm of awareness of each other’s presence and watched out for the things that concerned them with a level of coordination many of us should envy in our human relationships.
I don’t know what Glory’s experience is: I observe her lethargy and confusion and try to help when words are no help. We three are reestablishing our household rhythms, some familiar, some new. I believe Glory has the capacity to emerge with a renewed confidence in her role and responsibilities being the dog.
It is such privilege to be trusted with relationship across species: to have watched Gwennie rest her head in Ann’s hands–her gesture speaking the words she could not say: “know what to do for me.” Now, to work with Glory, her eyes on me, especially out in the yard, “may I go this far? no farther? Shall I bark at that neighbor or not?” Voice tone, hand signals, a recognized vocabulary of about 50 words creating the language and the tether between us. She’s learning. She’s curled at my feet under the writing desk, sighing heavily. I sigh too.
Good dog. Good grief. Little being. Big lessons. More coming.
The animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren; they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth. ~Henry Beston, The Outermost House, 1928
Copyright ©2009 Christina Baldwin. All rights reserved.
My heart goes out to all of you for the loss of Gwennie. It sounds like Glory and Gwennie have had a wonderful life together. I believe if Gwennie could have said anything to all of you at the end, it would have been “thank you”.
Nancy
Dear Christina,
I am so sorry to hear of the loss of Gwennie. I sit here in loving pain with you, reading your beautiful words. We too shared the surprise of losing our Brodie dog in January at the age of only two. One moment he was vibrant and playing, the next he sighed and fell asleep for good in my arms. He had a brain anuerism. I am sure he has met Gwennie and is introducing her to all the mischievious pranks he has already discovered in doggie heaven. Our hearts too continue to yearn and keep a space open for him - a space gently and gradually being filled by the arrival of our new puppy (yes it does help). We are truly privileged to have these canine friends, and I share with you this quote in which I found some comfort: “until you have loved an animal, part of your soul remains unawakened”,
with loving thoughts for you, Ann and Glory.
Aileen
Christina,
Thank you for letting us in the virtual Storycatcher community know of Gwennie’s passing and for sharing your grief, Annie’s and Glory’s, as well as your insights and stories. The two leggeds and four leggeds in this house hold know these feelings of grief, emptiness and loss - though, of course, we “know it” in different ways.
Dogs and humans forged their unique relationships in nature thousands of years ago, and our two species have been learning from one another, comforting one another, working together, and sharing special bonds, ever since. This becomes all the more real to me today as I think of the writing circles where Gwennie and Glory joined us - either around the hearth as we read, or at dinner when we ate, or when we walked in the woods or on the beach together, and I realise that the grief you now feel is and was shared by so many of our ancestors and will be felt by generations to come.
It is universal, this special bond between humans and dogs. And as I think about our long history with our dog companions I am more and more convinced that we domesticated one another, that is, that dogs had a hand in domesticating us, of tugging back on the leash, of reminding us of our more fundamental nature in nature - especially the importance, as you say, of being present in the moment. The importance of remembering to run, play, feel, rest, smell, sleep, protect, stay with the pack, breathe deeply, and to just be still in the warmth of the fire at night. All of these are things we humans forget to experience fully. And the more hurried and worried, stressed and confined we humans have become, the more important our animal companions become to our very survival.
Gwennie lived a good life - very much her own dog in the pack - with the very best of human and canine companions. Her special spirit now lives on.
Our thoughts are with you.
MK
I am so happy to have met your sweet dogs, and have my own appreciation for the love and heart they offered together to one another, and to you both. May Glory find her way eased under your loving eyes, and Gwennie watch over all.
Judy
I’m especially going to miss Gwennie’s greeting ritual — sounding the alarm, the survey, then the final turn away as if to say she knew who it was all the time — and why couldn’t I understand this? Under the guise of Love, many treat dogs as if they were human. Instead, Gwennie was honored and recognized. Blessings on you all as you navigate new ways of being together.
My condolences to all of you. No one roots so deeply into our hearts as do our pets. You are right; we are privileged to have their trust. What nobel teachers they are!
Christina-Ann-Glory,
All three of you are in my heart. I am sorry for the loss of your good friend Gwennie.
May you find the good memories of your times together to help you through this.
Dear Ann & Christina
There are no words I can say other than to let my tears gently run down my face as I send this story to you that you may have already received. Miss Gwennie is in our hearts and along with all her lessons.
WHY PEOPLE LIVE LONGER THAN DOGS:
Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog’s owners, Ron, his wife, Lisa, and their little boy, Shane, were all very attached to Belker and they were hoping for a miracle.
I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family there were no miracles left for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home. As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for the four-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.
The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker’s family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.
The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, “I know why.”
Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I’d never heard a more comforting explanation.
He said, “People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life — like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The four-year-old continued, “Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay as long.”
Live simply.
Love generously.
Care deeply, Speak kindly.
Leave the rest to God.
Love Sharon
My condolences to you as well. We put down our 14 year old cocker spaniel, Murray, just over a year ago (cancer as well) and the sadness is still there. Our second and younger spaniel, Huey, was completely lost for months- it was heartbreaking. I wrote a story about the 2 of them and it proved to be a major part of our family’s healing process. I hope that it is for you too Christina. Losing a loved pet is quite incomparable.
Janet
Christina and ANN…Joan and I are palpitating with resonance, with you both. I love your sentence that the loss of a pet is such a unique experience, but how you describe the loss of Gwennie is profound and magnetic. It makes us pre-visit our own losses of Kai and MaChree, and that enables us to be with you both in this time of grief and adjustment. Take this in.
Love, Brenda and Joan
My heart hurts. I’ll learn the lessons, but not tonight. Tonight, Robert and I send our love.
I am so sorry for the loss of your Gwennie! She will always be in your hearts and memories — I’ll bet that you learned the lessons she taught and basked in the love that she brought.
I am so sorry for the loss of Gwennie. I hope that Glory has made some adjustment to her life without Gwennie. I also wanted to say that your words have been of great help to me. We lost our 3 year old French bulldog Owen last month. He woke up one morning partially paralyzed and by the time we got him to the neurologist a couple of hours later there was no hope for him. It felt like the light just went out of our house. Our other two young dogs are confused and lethargic. Of all the things I have read about pet loss your words are the most comforting. Thank you for sharing your story. It has been a great help.
I think if I were to put something on a tombstone for Owen it would definitely be “and the little dog laughed.” Owen was filled with joy and exuberance every day and like Gwennie I think he said WOW every day of his life.
I hope time and the companionship of Glory will ease your sadness.
Mary
I too, feel your loss. My beloved Kendall, a corgi also, lost her fight with cancer last December. Her spirit remains with me–how could I do without it? Kendall was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Her faithfulness, her unconditional love, her spirit–how could that ever be replaced? It can’t! I too have a corgi puppy–Hudson–eight weeks old, a ball of fur, and non-stop energy. Replace Kendall-never. Keep our other corgi, Brodie, company-yes.
Thank you for your beautiful story. It has helped me more than you could know. I know that we will all hold on to our memories of the wonderful life that our corgis allowed us to share.
Jean
Loosing a pet is awlful! I just went thru the loss of my Corgi mix March 11. He was diagnosed with a cyst on his prostrate in January, went to a specialist, and they operated on him Feb. 8th. He only lasted four weeks, and had to be euthanized. He was about a month short of his seventeenth birthday, and as hard as it is to accept this loss, I am thankful for the almost seventeen years we were together.