Why Dogs are Essential to Spirituality
Last night I buried my dog. No, really. A few days before we dug a grave in anticipation of his physical departure because we, as humans, get to do that. We have power. When humans are suffering, it is far more ambiguous as to what the right thing to do might be and who is authorized to do it, when. With my dog, my hero and soul mate, I called it. First of all, he is a German Shepherd/Husky mix and he was never going to call it. He made ME do that because he was going to mask his symptoms to spare me at any cost. He, who I adopted from an animal shelter in Albuquerque, New Mexico at a weird and tumultuous time in my life. He was just wee. He was dumped there at birth. The shelter raised him until I was able to take him home at 8 weeks old. I loved him instantly, and he loved me…evidenced by how he would lean into me as he looked around his surroundings and stabilized himself against my body. He knew me as his safety, his home. I love him for that. His affection was the most genuine I had ever known. I can’t name a human relationship prior to that experience that gave me the gift of trust he did.
Morgan was named after many days of agonizing deliberation, as it seemed particularly important to choose the correct name for such a profound relationship. Exasperated by the magnitude of the task I zoned out the window as I drove through a rural New Mexican town and noticed the new hardware store and giant displays of MORGAN hardware storage sheds. The sign just said MORGAN and it lit up my heart. That was it. He shall be Morgan. And so it was. Those who know us have heard me call him MORGAN STANLEY RAMSEY! when emphatic, but that wasn’t really his name. I had actually thought of Morgan Freeman when I named him. This was before it became so trendy for people to name their female children Morgan.
Morgan went everywhere with me, and he became a car-loving beast. He rode in the crate when little, in the front seat in the shotgun spot when young, and in the back pacing and chasing cars through the window as an adult dog. One thing was certain, I wasn’t to go anywhere without him. For many years, I didn’t. Not to work, not to play, nowhere without my dog.
As we both aged and hiked every bit of Alaska we knew of and could get to, Morgan began to experience arthritis and joint pain, especially his shoulders and hips. Our activities became limited but instead of me forcing myself to acknowledge his limitations, I focused on what abilities he had and what accommodations I needed to make. For a while, we bought time. When eventually, my most beloved friends and my wife finally helped me ease into reality, it was clear. Painful, but clear. This pure soul, this being representing all that I know of unconditional love was suffering, and he was doing it for me. This dog would not relent to the pain or the inconvenience or the selfishness that most people would. He was toughing it out for me. Once I internalized this knowledge I could make plans. I have to say though, the plans were cognitive, practical…they were for “someday”. That someday happened yesterday. Morgan was 13.
I can’t really say why cremation was not an option. I just could not imagine burning this dog. His coat was a thing of beauty, duty, daily maintenance and pride. I could not stomach the thought. We live on an acre and a half of land and I was determined to honor him here. He loved our place. But that meant I had to plan, prepare and create a burial spot. It was profound. I dug a hole so deep I almost could not get myself out of because it needed to be deep. No one was going to mess with Morgan’s spot.
The vet came and brought an assistant to do the task. They were loving, gentle, respectful and sweet, but Morgan fought them the whole way. Sedated, he wanted to get away from us. Once back in my arms, he collapsed and relaxed. Then he was so sedated he wasn’t with us at all and I am not sure he could hear my loving murmurs. I hope that he did. Then it was over. He was gone.
I felt nothing but pain. Nothing but empty. I didn’t see his spirit rise, I didn’t feel his relief. All I felt was loss.
Is this MY spiritual crisis? Tonight I explored that. Less than 24-hours since burying my best friend, I began to rant at the universe and ask questions. I eventually went to his gravesite and had long conversations with him as if he could hear me. I told him all that I felt, all he had meant and then I realized…all that he would always mean. This dog, was my proof of unconditional love and loyalty. While us humans aspire, we can’t do what they do. We can’t NOT remember yesterday or not worry about tomorrow. We can’t live in the moment the way they can. If there is such a thing as spirit, I believe Morgan is my guardian in Spirit as he was in the flesh. He has my back in the Spirit world and I have his. Otherwise, dead is, well, dead. I understand the discomfort in that very thought as the heart of the origin of so many religions. And I get it. I deem Morgan my Guardian Angel, forever; my proof of the spiritual world. I just couldn’t have loved him more, and because of him, there just has to BE more.