Memorial Day evokes thoughts of our dearly departed. For some of us, the losses are still fresh; memories may bring more tears than joy.
We genuinely miss our unique loved one: the slight hitch in his walk; how she always tapped the door jams she walked through; his quips through grinning lips; how she looked at you with eyes so wide open, you knew she was listening with all her heart.
But we also miss how they reached us as only they could. How they gently coaxed us to reveal and revere those parts of ourselves we feared the most — or knew the least. We may also mourn because we believe that those budding character traits shriveled up and died along with our loved one.
Not so! Those spiritual crops they helped us harvest grew from seeds that we planted inside ourselves long ago: the beauty that our loved ones saw in us from the very beginning.
In some cases, our dearly departed walked on four legs, hung out on perches or breathed through gills. They were masters in the arts of meditation and play. Furry, feathered and scaled mystics in the language of love.
I choose to honor those departed loved ones by continuing to be that living harvest; to pay it all forward and hope that others do the same. I believe that our survival as a planet depends on it.
Here are but a few of the fellow beings with whom I’ve shared fewer chromosomes, but higher-intensity lessons in learning. None were my actual pets.
“Kitty” was a stray who perched beside our plants in the balcony of the apartment where I lived with mom and dad in 1965. Over time, she braved the linoleum tiles of our kitchen to lap up the saucer of milk we put out for her. We never saw her again after she finally accepted our meal, but I’ve carried her gift to this day: it is possible for me to build trust that triumphs over fear.
Another nameless, black and white stray popped out from a torn basement grate to lick my wounds after I took a header over the handlebars of my bike when I was eight. The scrape over my left forehead where she licked me appeared to heal faster than the other wounds on my chin and elbows. This little homeless girl taught me that I may have the most to give when I’ve got the least.
One night in 1968, my cousin rescued me in the rain after I ran away from my drunken father. As I shivered under a blanket on her couch, my cousin’s cat, Sheldon, kissed my nose. Until then, Sheldon had never given me the time of day. He’d even scratched me a few times when I tried to pet him. But Sheldon came through. Even curmudgeons can love when the chips are down.
Fast forward three decades to my second career incarnation. I am a location scout for TV commercials shooting a property in Malibu, California, when I am surrounded by three snarling guard dogs. From their midst, “Daisy,” a tea cup terrier, scurried over to me, flopped on her back and welcomed my hand on her belly. Her “brothers” followed suit. Often, the smallest voices carry the farthest.
The depth of our grief is testament to the depth of our love and personal transformation. Long live the legacies of the departed! May each new memory be a blessing in ways we never imagined.
To be continued — same time next year.
Please share your memories of how a departed animal companion changed you.