True tale of transformation #3

Iconic photo of Kira by Marjorie Simmins

Once upon a time, there was a Goldendoodle puppy called Kira. She was blonde, curly-haired and rather more pointed-nose poodle-looking than was seemly, but she made up for it by having a merry, loving disposition and by not being easily frightened. Many dogs are terrified of children. When Kira very first met my granddaughter, five-year-old, Leila, pelting down an alleyway toward her, tiny puppy Kira was thrilled and ran right up to her to be scooped up in the girl’s arms. When Kira grew up to her full size of eighty pounds, nasty dogs who would usually like to tear up other animals found her pleasant, and little dogs who’d usually be scared of big dogs enjoyed her too. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” the man from the German Shepherd Rescue society said when Kira ran up to say hi to one of his ferocious dogs who wagged its tail and was pleased. She was the kind of dog who made people smile just to see her.

Leila, Kira on her first day home, Zoe

Kira’s people were Garney and Zoë. They lived on Pender Island. A few times a week they all walked together and some days Garney took Kira out by himself while Zoë waved goodbye and wrote. One morning when Kira walking with Garney around Roe Lake, their favourite walk in the world, Garney stopped breathing and fell down. Kira didn’t understand this but she cuddled up to him and didn’t leave. “What a good dog,” said the RCMP officer who attended.

After Garney’s death, Zoë’s chief consolation in the days, weeks, months and years to come was her dog. Zoë’s family all lived elsewhere, though they called, and she had many good friends on the island. But mainly it was Zoë and her dog as a unit. Zoë’s names for Kira were Furface, Ms Furface, Sweet Nose, Sweetheart, Ms Girl and others too numerous to mention. Zoë’s family was much comforted that the two of them had each other

.It was the custom, when Zoë went into Vancouver now and then for medical appointments or to visit her daughter, that a kind neighbour couple brought Kira to stay with them and their two dogs.

One day, when the neighbour came over at six in the morning to pick up Kira, the dog was overjoyed to see him. She leapt and romped and was altogether in high spirits. Zoë’s bags were on the porch. Her tea was ready in the travel mug. Ten more minutes and she’d be off.

Two minutes after they left, there was a knock on Zoë’s door. It was the neighbour.

“We got out the gate,” he said. “Kira fell over. Collapsed. All four feet up in the air.”

Kira was then sprawled on the driveway, twenty feet from the door. Zoë ran out. She took Kira’s head in her hands. The dog was panting raggedly. Had she had a stroke? She was obviously distressed. Right. Zoë’d cancel all her appointments in town. She thanked the neighbour for his great good sense in bringing Kira back, coaxed the dog to her feet and they half-carried Kira the three steps up into the house.

It was then 6:15 a.m. The vet on Pender Island didn’t open until ten o’clock. Sometimes Zoë sat on the floor beside her Furface. Sometimes Kira lay beside Zoë’s chair. They were always touching. When Kira’s breathing got really harsh, as it did at intervals, Zoë held her and told her that she was a good dog, and everything was okay. Kira would rest her nose in Zoë’s hands and her breathing would calm. They moved around a lot; Kira kept trying to find a way to be comfortable.

For the last forty years, Zoë has used the early, sweet part of the morning to do prayerful work, yielding to Spirit and holding up different aspects of her highest sense of good. So now she goes to the universe for love, takes it, pulls it out of the air and gives it back. The dog and her person breathe together in love, great clouds of tenderness, and rest upon it. This love is a silky pearl colour, ever so reassuring. The dog was frightened. It was Zoë’s job to remind her that they were there in love, with love. For what do we have but now? What do we have but the kindnesses we give to one another, and take as well, with gratitude?

It was a long three and a half hours. Eventually, Kira ended up on the rug by Zoë’s bed. They were still touching. Fifteen minutes before the vet was supposed to open, Zoë called the clinic and the assistant answered. Yes, the vet would see Kira right away. Zoë texted the neighbour and asked for help. At this point, they’d have to lift the good dog into the car. Zoë ran her fingers through Kira’s curls and told her she’d be right back, she was just going to move the car closer to the house.

It took less than a minute. When Zoë came back into the bedroom, Kira had stopped breathing.

“It was a good death,” the vet said. He said that, given the dog’s size and her age, it was likely an aortic tumour. They grow on the spleen or the liver with no symptoms and no pain. Then one day, the tumour breaks. The abdomen fills with blood. “There would’ve been no pain. You were with her, she was home. It was as good as it gets.”

The emptiness of a house which has had a dog, and then doesn’t, is profound. But here are the things that are magical and comforting.

·      The neighbour gave me the choice of picking up Kira the night before or in the morning: I chose morning. Even though Kira snored and scrabbled and moved around at night, I wanted her with me.

·      If Kira had collapsed ten minutes later, I wouldn’t have been able to sit with my dear dog as she was dying.

·      My neighbour said he would’ve blamed himself forever if Kira had died on his watch.

·      Kira didn’t fall down on a 5 k trail, like the one we’d walked the day before. What would I have done to get her home?

·      The dog was happy right up until the moment she fell over. We were playing with her silly rainbow toy just the night before.

·      I was right beside Kira except for that one minute when I moved the car.

When I was touching Kira and talking with her, was I blocking a door? It seemed that when I left the room, my Furface was able to see it. My daughter claims Garney was on the other side of that door: who knows?

Anyway, my friends and readers: please raise a glass or a cup of tea to Kira.

Here’s a snip of a poem for my sparkly-souled dog from Orchid Heart Elegies by McGill-Queen’s Press

Now, singular, we learn to wear loneliness, a jewel of sorts,

the colour of a fog bank, sometimes shot through

with blue as moonstones echo sky.

It’s a game, isn’t it, though poignant,

to replace feeling lonely with merely being alone.

There’s the air, the way it touches skin, there are books,

music, the dog, always the dog, snoring or snouting for a pat.

Transformation is a silver process, cold much of the time,

slippery, a belt of metal stripping scales you didn’t know

you grew on your arms, your legs, your flower heart.

What do we own but air? And then, ultimately, not even that.

Inhaling and exhaling, the overlooked gift

of traveling a little longer through this world.

Ladyslipper orchid, the kind referred to in the poem.