Whispers of the Soul
Life lessons from a golden retriever’s passing.
A woman wakes suddenly in the early hours. She’d heard it clearly, as if someone had leaned in close to her pillow and whispered, “Don’t let grief then stay your hand.”
Silence follows, broken only by the gentle breathing of the old dog lying on the foam mattress next to the bed. The man had (at the woman’s insistence) for some days now, taken to sleeping in the guest room. The constant switching on and off the air conditioner dried his eyes and nasal passages.
They’d installed it some weeks before, a necessary step to keep the big dog cool, he was struggling to regulate body temperature, particularly at night. At 14 years of age, his mind was still sharp, he had the personality and demeanour of a puppy, only his body was failing him.
The man is often woken. Firstly the sound of the golden dog’s heavy panting through the thin walls followed by the woman’s bare feet padding across the wooden floor on her way to the bathroom. Finally, the watery sound of thirsty laps in the dark while the woman kneels on the foam mattress holding the water bowl under the dog’s dripping mouth. No one in the little house was getting much sleep.
The retriever’s back legs had rapidly weakened over the last year, but he was still able to lift himself using strong chest muscles, his front legs, and most often a helpful pair of human hands. Later, an x-ray revealed badly deteriorated hips, particularly the right one, the ball of the femur so arthritic it could no longer fit into the socket of the pelvis.
There was the vet’s advice, “There’s nothing we can do but for now, let’s increase his pain medication by an extra half dose, to ensure his continued comfort.” a slight pause, and then, “I don’t want you to feel pushed into anything, but quality of life and mobility is very important for a dog. When you decide it’s time to let him go, call me, no one will question you.”
The man turns to his weeping wife and says, “We don’t need to decide today” and the couple, their hearts full of tears take their beautiful extraordinary golden retriever home. Neither of them aware the Sunday morning whispered words are only five weeks and a bucket list away.
The next five weeks and a bucket list.
The bucket list consists of walks, swimming in the lagoon with Ruby, the black dog, roast chicken, a taste of Mommy’s mince, a tablespoon of Daddy’s creamy oats, a new chewy toy to destroy, playing ball, massages, lots of love and cuddles — all the things the big boy loves to do and some things he hasn’t done for some time.
The woman does her utmost, acupressure, massage, and reiki. The man cuts the sides off a cloth shopping bag to use as a safety hammock to prevent the dog from tripping and falling during their short daily walks, to help negotiate stairs or assist with getting up after a long night of lying down.
For a tantalising two weeks, the big animal seems to improve and gain strength but then things take a turn for the worse and before long the weakened hind limbs and severely compromised mobility finally begins to get to him. Sometimes he flings himself down on the floor in frustration, refusing to let her help him stand up. A few episodes of incontinence cause him great distress and upset. Especially the ones in his bed.
A few days before the whisper, she holds his beautiful face in her hands, stares into his soft dark eyes, and with a broken heart, the woman says, “Tell Mommy when it’s time to leave, I promise I won’t hold you back or beg you to stay, I’ll let you go in love and light because I love you.”
As she lies there in the dark, the woman recognizes the whispered words, “Don’t let grief then stay your hand,” as lines from a poem about our responsibility as a pet’s guardian to initiate euthanasia if the animal is frail, weak, and cannot sleep due to pain.
She knows now, knows without a shadow of a doubt, his soul has spoken, he is ready.
In the morning, the man walks into the kitchen, takes one look at her pale grim face, and knows the decision has been made. He breaks down, she cradles his head against her chest and weeps with him. They stand like two broken reeds who lean against each other for support. The rest of Sunday is quiet and subdued, her manner takes on a temporary false type of gaiety, she’s determined not to upset the dogs with her tears.
Terrified she’ll forget all the adorable things he used to do, she makes little videos with her phone and uses her big Canon camera to create even more images to add to the hundreds she already has of him. She’s a photographer, he is her muse, the most beautiful thing she has ever photographed. They have a unique and special connection these two, he is a beautiful soul.
Monday morning.
The vet is notified, he agrees with the decision, yes, he’ll come to the house. Tuesday is the soonest he can make it, would it be alright if he came between 5 and 6 pm? The man fights the impulse to say to her, “Let’s wait another week, even just a few more days,” but he doesn’t let the words leave his mouth, he knows this is the right decision and his heart breaks.
They take the dogs to swim in the lagoon one last time, and she sees a man walking a young golden retriever, he smiles and waves at her, and she smiles back, happy for him his dog is young and strong and golden.
She contacts three friends in distant locations, they are familiar with the big dog. She tells them of the decision and asks them to send positive energy and celestial beings to assist all four of them during this agonising time but especially to help the retriever return to spirit with ease.
In the afternoon after their walk with the dogs, they see a pair of pied crows land on the lamppost outside the cottage perch and preen each other for a long time. Crows are not often seen around the house, the crow is her totem animal, and she takes it as confirmation all is well and Great Spirit has everything under control.
During the evening, she steals glances at the big dog who lies at her feet in the flickering television light. She cannot believe this is the last night she will look down and see her foot next to his. An invisible hand squeezes her heart, this is the hardest thing she has ever had to do.
Time for bed. She helps the big dog settle himself on the foam mattress and opens the bedroom window, there’s a smell of rain in the air. During the night the wind comes up, the blind rattles and the room cools. She hears the rain fall softly on the earth outside the window, comforted with the knowledge it is Great Spirit who directs the elements to help in any way they can, to keep the big dog cool and make the earth soft for his final resting place.
She lies awake for a long time to listen to his breath, determined to memorise the rhythm of it. As the moon wanes in its last phase, its energy is deep and powerful; it is a time for transition, transformation, a good time to let go, and an auspicious time to die.
Every single night for the longest time he has slept next to her side of the bed until the morning sun gently lights the room but not tonight. He sleeps beside her from 9 pm till 3 am, when she hears him struggling to stand up and get off his mattress, switching the bedside lamp on she helps him up.
Perhaps he has messed the bed or needs to go outside? He shuffles as far as the passage alcove and flops down next to her desk. The man opens the door of the other room, all the noise has woken him, “What’s going on?” he asks, “I thought he needed to go out but now I’m not sure what he wants,” she answers.
Going back to his room the man closes the door. Right on cue, the big animal heaves himself up, using all the strength in his chest and front legs, and staggers to the man’s bedroom door. He stands and stares at it. This is a familiar sign, she knows it well, he wants her to open the door and she does. He goes in, turns around, and lies at the foot of the man’s bed for the final three hours of his last night on Earth. Six hours for Mom and three hours for Dad, just so you know I love you both.
Tuesday. The final day.
The date is 17–10–2017 and weeks afterward, she thinks back to all the synchronicities of his crossing and wonders if there is any significance to the numbers. She asks a friend who knows about numerology and confirms the numbers in the date are meaningful, the day vibration indicates a new beginning, a new journey. It seems appropriate. He is a very smart dog.
They walk early, the wind blows, the sky is leaden, and tiny drops of rain fall on the couple and their dogs. It’s the golden dog’s favourite kind of weather, he loves the wind, it makes him frisky and blows his long silky hair all around him like feathers. She’s brought her mobile along, they take turns to photograph themselves as they walk with the dogs. She knows no number of videos or photographs can keep her precious boy with her, but she can’t help herself, the thought of him no longer at her side is unbearable, this is the only thing she can do to try to keep him with her forever.
After breakfast, the dog separates himself from them all and goes to lie in his favourite place, under the trees just outside the garage in the dappled light of the midmorning sunshine. The woman knows he needs to ready his spirit for the journey to come.
She roasts a chicken, a treat she has promised him, and begins to prepare a sacred space in the living room for his crossing. She lights a candle and cleans the floor with a wash of Lavender and Tea Tree essential oils, she doesn’t have sage, this will have to do. After his mattress and blanket are moved to the area, she smudges it all with a hand-rolled stick of frankincense including a black crow feather and a white dove feather. She lays the feathers next to the candle for later.
In the backyard, the man digs the grave with a heavy heart, it is very hard work, he stops now and then to rub at his eyes. Everything is ready except the couple. They will never be ready for this.
Later the big dog plays a gentle game of tug of war with her and the black dog. He chews a new blue tennis ball to pieces, pieces she picks up and carefully places in the dustbin. The man and the black dog take a nap, and the house becomes quiet.
It’s just the two of them now in the living room. Feeling melancholy, she lies on the couch next to his mattress. Her funny, handsome, sensitive, clever, best boy in the world comes and lies down alongside her, she strokes his head and tells him she loves him with all her heart. He turns his beautiful face towards her, lays his head on her lap, and tells her he loves her too.
The sky is blue now, with not a cloud in sight, the wind is still up and blowing and they take their last bittersweet walk together in the brisk afternoon air. When they get home she feeds him his dinner, a sumptuous meal of tender roast chicken, he enjoys it so much he almost licks the shine off the bowl. It makes her happy to do this small thing for him.
Eventually, there is nothing more to do, no more walks, no more bucket lists to complete, chickens to roast, or spaces to prepare, so they wait. Time stands still, there is a tension to the waiting. Five o’clock comes and goes, they wait still, all chatter has ceased, and the house is silent.
At a quarter to six, the sombre mood is broken by the big dog’s joyous barks at the vet’s arrival. He loves visitors, and the vet is an old friend. After a brief discussion, they help him onto the mattress with the cut-up shopping bag. The vet sits on the floor in front of him, she is behind him and strokes his head, and the black dog lies to her left.
After much research they have decided to let the black dog be present for the crossing, the experts advise she should know what has happened to her beloved mate of eleven years rather than pine and search for him forever. They know it will be very hard on her but easier than if they had hidden it from her. The man stands at the front door he wants to be supportive, but he can’t watch.
The vet is ready and asks if he should proceed, she nods and hugs the big dog to her, she whispers in his ear,
“You’re going on an adventure, over the moon and across the rainbow bridge to play with angels. There will be no more pain or struggle. You’ll be a young dog again, able to run, jump and chase rabbits. I love you, my boy. I release you in love and light.”
Silent tears drip off her chin now, “Remember to come back for me when my time comes. I’ll wait for you. I love you; I love you; I love you.”
She feels him relax, the weight of his head heavy in her hands, the vet uses his stethoscope and nods. The big heart beats no longer. She closes his eyes and lays him gently on his side, he looks as though he merely sleeps as if he could wake up any second. The man looks at the clock, it’s six o’clock exactly.
Tentatively the black dog comes forward to smell her mate, animals understand death, the finality of it. She will not search for him forever; she knows what has happened. The vet asks if they need any help to move the big dog into the garden, she thanks him but says no they can manage on their own. She can’t wait for him to go, finally, he packs his bag and leaves.
She kneels behind her darling boy, lays across his chest, kisses him, and begins to stroke the silky golden fur, sobbing uncontrollably. After the vet departs, the man comes inside, he too is no longer able to contain his grief and cries out. Together they howl like wounded animals, their loss too great to bear. The black dog flops onto her bed, her mind and body limp, bereft, devastated with grief.
Later when the tears subside a little, they sit together with him. Each one holding a shot of whiskey in a crystal glass, they drink a toast and then another to this very fine, big-hearted, special animal they have had the privilege to know and love for fourteen years. She looks at the clock, it’s late and she wants to give him over to Mother Earth’s embrace before the sun sets.
They wrap him in his blanket and struggle down the hill together to the bottom of the garden, the black dog follows. They open the blanket, call to her softly to come forward, and respectfully allow her to say her final goodbye. Gently they lower him into the earth, careful to lay him on his left side so his head faces East, the place of the rising sun. She places his favourite ball and orange frisbee in with him and tucks the crow feather and the white feather under his right arm. The crow feather ensures he flies directly to his destination and the white feather ensures his guardian angel be there to guide and protect him on this sacred journey.
Until we meet again, rest in peace sweet Paddington, it was a joy and an honour to walk this earth with you for 14 years, I love you forever my boy.
Wednesday. The grief is still raw.
They take the black dog for a walk, her tail hangs down, and she is lost without her companion. He always found the best smells, the best places to pee, without him to guide her she drifts this way and that, a rudderless ship. Upon their arrival home, they hear a crow call. The woman sits on the back stairs and stares at his grave, a red-breasted Robin hops about on the newly turned soil looking for worms. The light is dappled, the atmosphere is peaceful.
The man is so supportive, he says they really must try to celebrate the big dog’s life. They tell each other stories about some of the moments they’d shared with him; the day they went to the breeder to pick a puppy and he plonked himself down at the woman’s feet as if to say, “Pick me, pick me!” and on the drive home the way he’d slept on her lap, completely content and never once cried for his canine mother or eight siblings.
They recalled the times (he was a puppy) when he used to steal the man’s carefully laid out socks, hankie, or underpants from the end of the bed and how one day at the park when he was still a boisterous and unruly teenage dog and a disabled young child wanted to pat him. How calm he was, how perfectly still he stood as he allowed the small boy to run his hands and fingers all over his body. He knew how to be gentle when faced with a vulnerable soul.
They remembered his penchant for lying on tables and benches and how fond he was of his cat sister. The man laughed out loud about the time the big dog made the woman scream in horror when he leaped out of the car window. What about when he used to sleep on the bed with the grandchildren, his body bigger than theirs, taking up more space than both combined?
How he would play tug of war in the garden, two small children on one side of the rope and him on the other. He always gauged their weight against his, kept tension on the rope just enough to keep the game going, and never tried to pull them off their feet. They reminisced about the three years they lived in Mauritius and how he and the black dog kindly welcomed all the foster dogs they took in. Oh! Remember how he used to dunk his head into shallow water to catch sea cucumbers and how proud he was of the goat skull he found one morning walk?
He was tolerant when she began to learn about pet photography, a patient and willing photographic model no matter what ridiculous pose she tried to put him into. She only resorted to incessant barking when she carried the session on far too long. How he knew and responded to all the nicknames she gave him, Paddy-Poops, Pookster-Malookster, Padinski, Pookylooze, Pooh Bear, and even when Dad called him “That Brown Bastard”, when he did something naughty. It makes them happy to remember and talk about all the good times they’d shared with him.
Mid-afternoon, she has a particularly severe bout of crying, the man holds her, what else can he do? Sometime later as she sits on the couch and hears the raucous call of a crow, then a second call, the third time it sounds different, insistent, urgent. She moves to the kitchen back stairs to investigate and sees two pied crows on her neighbour’s roof parallel to the back stairs but diagonally opposite the big dog’s grave. This is most unusual, she calls the man, and he comes to look. Looking at them, the largest crow gives a soft call after which both crows fly away over the rooftops, first one and then the other. She takes it as a sign all is well with the golden boy and everything is as it should be.
Days go by, and grief comes and goes. They are okay one moment and in bits the next. There is no way around this thing called grief, one must go directly through it. All of it must be experienced. It can’t be hurried, there is no time limit. It’ll be done when it’s done.
The big dog was much loved in the neighbourhood, he loved to lie and stare out of the front door, and his deep friendly bark to passers-by is sorely missed. People are very kind, they bring flowers, commiserations, tell their own stories. The couple sit at the very top of the kitchen stairs most afternoons with the black dog, a glass of wine in hand, watching the sun sink behind the dunes, it makes her feel calm and close to her beloved furry soulmate.
Two weeks to the day, it’s her birthday, and despite the sadness, it’s a good day. There are phone calls, a few gifts, and unexpected flowers arrive. They share a quiet intimate dinner outside on the wooden deck with all her twinkly lights ablaze. By candlelight under the stars, they eat a rack of ribs, and crisp herb salad with garlic bread, and share a special bottle of wine. Afterward, he makes a fire, and they toast marshmallows.
They rise before six the next morning and decide to walk the black dog early to avoid the heat of the day, they can see it is going to be a scorcher. While the man locks the front door, she walks ahead of him, and as she steps through the garden gate a large flock of pure white birds fly directly overhead. They are so close; she can see their legs tucked neatly underneath the streamlined bodies. In the stillness of the morning, she hears the faint fluttering of wings and feels a gentle breeze on her upturned face as they pass close above her. Time becomes elastic. The moment is sacred. She feels the energy shift and her spirits lift slightly.
The flock of white birds is a good omen. A message from him she thinks. They give her hope.
She will grieve for the big dog every day until the time of her crossing when she knows he will come back for her. Until then she knows there will still be sad days and tearful moments, but the pain will lessen little by little and eventually only good memories will remain.
MY LIFE LESSON
According to my experience grief is made up of two parts, there’s the heartbreaking unbearable intense pain which after an undetermined period, lessens in intensity to a softer emotion, a gentle sadness if you will.
The second part of grief is the longing. Now that’s the tricky one as time appears to have little or no effect on the longing. Nowhere near as intense as the initial pain, the longing feels interminable though and wearing on the soul.
November 30, 2022
Exactly 5 years, 1 month, and 4 days after Paddington’s death, the longing has transmuted into a quiet nostalgia.
The reason? A nine-week-old golden retriever puppy called Cadbury.
I’m not suggesting you can sidestep grief and longing by immediately trying to replace what you have lost but given enough time (this is different for everyone) your heart will open to create a space to nurture a new love.
Do I still grieve? Of course, I do but I can live with it. Make no mistake, I will always miss Paddington; he was an extraordinary soul who changed my life for the better.
I’m praying he watches over Cadbury and me from time to time to see how we’re doing and teaches him to help his human relax a little and not take life so seriously.
