día de los muertos

There are two gray months on the pond — November and February — bookends, if you will. This November is no exception; it’s already lonely and dreary. Already, the beauty of our New England October is hidden from view. The swans were still there yesterday, at the pond across the road, but they were clustered close together, and all but one had their heads beneath their wings. Everything seems to be closing up, looking inward.

Here, there are leaves still to be raked, furniture that has yet to be put away, detritus from the season past not yet gotten rid of. It’s a time between seasons, yet it is marked by an irrevocable march toward dark and cold. It’s a time of year that eats at me.

It’s also the third anniversary of my beloved dog’s death.

I have kept what I could of Winter’s belongings, though dogs, to their credit, leave little behind. Her collar with her tags is looped around the rear-view mirror of my car. Winter was a reluctant car passenger all of her life. But faced with accompanying me or being left behind, she had little real choice, and we went on many good car journeys together. After she died, there was no question as to what to do with her collar.

I also have a plastic baggy filled with her fur. The thing about Great Pyrenees is that they have the most wondrous coats, and they shed all the time. I had been collecting little bits of it for a short time before her death. I knew Winter was starting to fail; she was 12, which was a good long life for such a big dog. I still find strands of her fur every so often; it weaves its way into fabric, and nothing except patient fingers can get it out. Pyrs have a particular smell, but the fur in the bag doesn’t smell like her anymore. When I pull it out, though, it feels like her, and for a moment I can imagine smoothing her ears. Nothing else feels like her fur.

The pain of her death isn’t as fierce as it was, but my sorrow at her absence is still deep. As always, I wonder why it annoys me that her death on November 1 coincides with Halloween and All Saints’ Day. Perhaps it has something to do with ancient seasonal celebrations being co-opted by something darker, something that explicitly serves the interests of organized religion, something that doesn’t feel like celebration to me.

I’d much rather associate her death with Samhain, a harvest festival dating back to the Celts who believed that the veil between the spirit and living worlds was thin when crops had been harvested, spring and summer plants were dying, and animals were being slaughtered. Like Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, Samhain also celebrated the deaths of family members. In Mexico, Día de los Muertos began as an indigenous ritual over 2000 years ago. The first day of this celebration is Día de los Inocentes, the day when children and infants – the innocents – who died are honored. Surely, dogs must be among the innocents.

A dear friend mentions that she spends Día de los Muertos in quiet introspection, communing with departed loved ones. Yes, I think, that’s exactly it. It doesn’t erase the pain and sorrow. It doesn’t mean I don’t still miss Winter acutely. It means that perhaps I can begin to celebrate her life.

A long while ago, I wrote about what turned out to be my last walk with Winter along the shores of the pond. She was old and sick, and she couldn’t walk very well. Together, we got to the water where the sun was shining, reflecting the late October color of the trees on the pond. Being with her that afternoon was a singular experience.

I’ll share that bit of writing here:

When I take Winter outside, both of us are hoping that this time she’ll be able to squat and relieve herself, in the backyard, the way she always has. I lift her over the utility room doorsill, so that she doesn’t have to try to climb over it.

She leans her weight against me and stands there for a few minutes. Winter has never been much of a leaner, as some dogs are. But now, it is, she has discovered, perhaps the best way to steady herself. She doesn’t squat, and I finally accept that she probably can’t at this point.

She sniffs the breeze ruffling her fur and cranes her neck a bit, and I know that she wants to go nearer to the pond. I help her over to the path that skirts along the road; it’s less interesting than the shore by our house, but it’s smoother. It is a short stroll away, a few hundred feet at most, but it is a very, very long walk for Winter now. I have to use a brace that goes around her body to support her because, without it, her legs buckle. Even though she has lost a good deal of weight over the past six months, she still weighs close to 90 pounds, and, if she were still able to jump up, she could put her paws on my shoulders. She’s a big dog. I help her as much as I can, but I can’t easily carry her, nor will she let me.

She wants to sniff and nose around; it’s difficult for her, though she doesn’t seem particularly troubled. We wander down the path, taking our time, to the edge of the pond. It’s cool, the end of October, but the sun is out, and there seem to be good smells for Winter to investigate. I let her direct us, steadying her when she needs it.

She snuffles under leaves, and then she turns her attention to the water. She won’t go in; she never does. She, like many Pyrs, does not like water, though being out in the rain troubles her not at all. But a bath or a very, very large puddle of the stuff? Not a chance. She smells it carefully, and then again, and then she looks out over the water. She maneuvers herself, so that she’s half sitting, half leaning against my legs. A good way to rest. She and I both know I can lift her up again without causing her undue pain. We stay there for a long while, just watching, staying in our patch of sun. The geese are making a ruckus at the far shore of the pond, and I watch Winter’s ears move up and down as she listens to them. Finally, it’s time to go; I worry about her getting chilled.

We head back up the path, and she stumbles a little. I steady her, and she leans against me for a few minutes, panting. I stroke her head and her silky ears. For right now, we have time. Someone, a woman in a car, drives by, slows down, and then says, “Oh, what a beautiful dog.” My eyes immediately fill with tears, and it’s all I can do to utter a thick “thank you.” It is only days before the end, and I see it coming. The woman must not be able to see Winter’s brace. Or maybe she does.

I suppose she sees the truth that is this grand old dog. Her unmistakable presence. Her face with those deep brown eyes, calmly looking back at the woman. Her white fur has gotten thin; now it stands out and away from her body, like an ethereal cloud, warmed by the afternoon light. She is still beautiful. Maybe even more so, here at the end. I believe this is what people mean when they talk about grace. And maybe what the woman sees is us, Winter and me. We’re so connected, operating more often as one, rather than two, a woman and her dog.

I do not know what is communicated to beloved animals at the end, but some say that you need to tell them that it’s okay for them to leave you. I tell her, finally. It’s not really true. What is true is that she needs me to help her through this last painful stage of her life when, though she is still lucid, still Winter, she has little control of her body and its functions. When I tell her again that it’s okay, a few days later in the vet’s office, she relaxes into my arms. The look she gives me is long, deep, and, ultimately, unfathomable. She has never been a dog who looked away when you looked at her. She holds my gaze that last morning until the contents of the vet’s injection takes her away.

I carry that day at the pond with me. It’s bright and clear. I didn’t know it then, but that day was a celebration of all that was good and true between a woman and her dog as they walked together, a day when not only were the trees reflected in the water, but so was a smiling white dog. Día de los Inocentes.

I carry that day with me.

Tagged as: celebration, death, Dia de los Muertos, dog, fall, harvest, innocent, November, pond, Samhain, walk, Winter dog