The Uncrossable Space

I have had relationships with animals since early childhood. My father loved creatures, and people who knew him knew that. So if a neighbor came across an abandoned baby raccoon or a bird, they knew where to bring it. We had various dogs, birds, four raccoons, and at one point a calf with one bad eye--Dad was keeping it in our super-large garage and our vast yard, for the farmer this baby belonged to. We fed it with a bucket that had a huge nipple. Her name was Susie.

This means that I've also said good-bye to a lot of creatures with whom I had relationships. You cry and bury this loved one--back then, in that rural town, we buried small creatures in flower beds, larger ones at one end of the enormous garden--and maybe you say a prayer, and cry some more. You tell yourself that you'll see Blue or Susie or Sydney again in a distant future. When you're a child, just about everything lies in your future, and it's easier to believe in outlandish things. Heaven, for instance; if I don't perceive myself anywhere near my own death, it costs little to believe in Heaven. And it's a comfort to place there all the pets I have loved and now must live without.

But now I am much past the middle point of my life, and it would be nice to believe firmly that I have a future beyond my perceivable future, which likely involves decline and Medicare and loneliness. And grief upon grief.

My husband and I had our dog euthanized yesterday. And I feel this distinct space between me and my Baby Girl. I have felt it for a long time, because now that I'm not a child, I can't pretend that dogs are just people with fur. They are a different species, and yes, I can feel close to Nala, and I can determine that Nala enjoys my company, that Nala is in fact attached to Jim and me. But beyond that, I do not understand this creature. I don't really know the nature of what we call her "love" for us. There is an uncrossable space between this dog and me, and there always was.

I could not cross that space when trying to train out of her the fearfulness that kept her somewhat high-strung and unpredictable all the years she lived with us. I could not figure out her dog brain or dog instincts or dog feelings enough to calm her, to communicate to her safety and structure. We had our routines that worked. She was totally at home with us. But she was different from us.

We chose not to prolong the life of a creature who would suffer more and more and to whom we could not explain the suffering. This is why I would never put a dog or cat, or any other kind of pet, through cancer treatment. All the dog or cat knows is that we are hurting her. We can't reassure her that the hurt will lead to feeling better, maybe.

I could not explain to Nala yesterday that this was our last walk together, that there were good reasons to spare her from the immediate, painful future. And although I said over and over, "I love you, Nala" and "You're such a good dog" and have said such things to her every day she's been with us, I have no reason to believe that those words meant to her what I wanted her to receive from them. That damned uncrossable space.

Will I see my Baby Girl again? Is that even the right question to ask? I can barely imagine a Heaven at all, let alone the sorts of odd constructs that might reunite me with Nala, also Buddy, Phathan, Blue, Sydney, Sass, and all the others who have long departed my life. Grief offers us the opportunity to accept that the time we had with someone, human or otherwise, was enough. We may have wanted more, but reality has finished the chapter for us. Grief calls us to let

go of hopes that have been thwarted a final time.

As for Heaven, filled with my father and grandparents and also my pets--I don't know anything, really. But I am willing to be delightfully surprised.