Part II, Day 69: A Photo Montage Intermission

photo by Tara Freeman, Zoe and me in my writing and meditation studio

Zoe in her favorite bunker, under the deck, watching the house

in trillium season, May of 2012, there was also phlox

Zoe and me in trillium season, photo by Kerry Grant

Zoe looking wolfy in May

Zoe at the entrance to the woods, trillium season, 2012

Zoe's meditation post

 I thought at first this photo was by Tara Freeman, but in fact I took it in early March when we were driving to do a walk with Cooper

photo by Tara Freeman of Zoe and me

I kept seeing this version of Zoe again, this exact face, in the last 10 days of her life

photo by Karen Strauss

photo by Karen Strauss

photo by Tara Freeman

photo by Tara Freeman

photo by Tara Freeman

photo by Tara Freeman

photo by Tara Freeman

Zoe and me having a chat, photo by Tara Freeman

Zoe and me in May, 2012, photo by Kelly Prime

Zoe in front of Chenonceau, the Loire Valley, France, May, 2010

Zoe at her meditation post on my balcony

resting on her funky day bed, a ripped up old sleeping bag of our kids', in my studio

We lived for these moments when she would roll on her back and let us pat her belly

Zoe in winter, her favorite season, after first major snowstorm of 2012

February 12, 2012

Zoe in the French Alps, late May, 2010

I have more posts to write, gentle reader, but today I wanted to share the photo montage I keep seeing in my head as I try to come to terms with both my grief for my beloved Zoe and my gratitude for the beautiful days we've shared together, up to the very end.  

The other day in an e-mail a friend quoted me from an early post when I said that sorrow's soft underbelly is made of the memories of the beloved that give us joy.  (I think I said this more succinctly the first time!)  These are a few of them in pictorial form.  I have more coming soon, and more stories.

Thank you so much for reading and for sharing your own stories about love, mortality, dogs, and more.

Namaste.

Part II, Day 21: Winter with Zoe

Our first full day together again, we woke up to winter.  It had been almost-80 in recent memory, and now there was snow on the ground.

I thought of a line from Winter, by Rick Bass:

Sometimes I want summer and green grass to come, but sometimes I feel like I've committed my life to winter, moving up here, and what's more, I've fallen in love with it, and have gotten used to it, and can't picture there not being snow under my feet.

When I started "Winter with Zoe" this past December, it was meant to be the title of 108 consecutive days of meditating every morning and living mindfully with my dog, whose days are numbered, but whose spirit and equanimity are remarkable.  One season: a protracted glorious wintry season.

Then the title, as I began the second set of posts this month, became aspirational.  As in, Next year in Jerusalem.  Another Winter with  Zoe.  That remains my goal, if it is possible without straining her, without compromising her quality of life.

On some days that goal seems quite attainable.  And then, when x-rays are studied, numbers compared, medical studies read: gloom descends.  But when I look at my dog and she looks at me, I see vitality and strength and endurance.

This wind and cold are welcome here; they are comforting reminders of the recent past: our very rich winter days together.  A season in which I have seen no patisserie windows or camels, attended no plays or concerts, and shopped for nothing other than dog food, dog medicines, farm food, and great books.  An exceedingly quiet winter spent at home, in a village of 6,000, in the far North in the United States, walking through snow and ice and, now and then, some unseasonably green grass, and wildflowers, and early crocuses, with Zoe.  The very best winter of my life.

When Zoe first sees snow, she pounces on it, as though it were alive.  And then she walks with her jaw dragging on the ground so that she can taste it with every step.

Not long after lunch, we crossed the river and followed the path.  We had to go soon, or the snow would disappear.  The snow was melting as we walked, and I called her my slush puppy before we were through.

We saw white buds opening above white snow: a sight I had never seen before.

The hawks' calls pierced both our silent reveries.  Zoe tipped her head up to the sky, and we watched them land high up on the scotch pine.  Some frightened gulls swooped around in a kind of crazy eight and disappeared.  Very few people were out.  Jackets that had been packed away came out, and hoods were cinched tight.  I was happy to be reunited with my ankle-length black down coat.

It was like going back in time.  Back to February.  Like giving my sabbatical and the dog's longevity another two months.

Bass also writes:

Anything I'm guilty of is forgiven when snow falls.  I feel powerful . . . [O]ut in the field, in snow, standing with my arms spread out, as if calling it down, the way it shifts and sweeps past in slants and furies all its own, the way it erases things until it is neither day nor night--that kind of light all through the day, dusk, several hours early, and lingering, lingering forever.

I am never going to grow old.  The more that comes down, the richer I am.

The snow gives me that sense of power today.  But dusk comes late, which is what we want in an April day, and the sky isn't bright.  We don't care.  We see more clouds than stars, more snow to come, or freezing rain, but I think of this weather as a reprieve, a return, a correction, a reminder not only to keep the winter clothes accessible, although that's probably a good idea, but simply not to let time move too fast, not to let these moments slip away as easily as late snow melting in spring.

The view from the kitchen window when I woke up Monday morning

Walking to the studio, I soaked my socks through my clogs.

Zoe decided to take her morning nap with me, instead of in the house.  We spent every part of the day together.

The view out my studio window as I worked on my novel.

Even with this wintry flashback, she wants to spend some time staring at the river from the balcony

I love the way she offered me her profile for this picture.  Often, she turns away just when she hears the snap.  This time, she posed.

Day 109: Summer in Winter, Winter in Spring

Dear Reader:
 
When my husband and I came back from our vacation in North Carolina with our dog, Zoe, last week, we drove home not to the last of winter, but straight into summer.  This week it was almost 80 degrees here, and now the trees are budding.  I saw purple crocuses in our yard that normally wouldn't arrive until the end of April.  Mosquitoes feasted on the sweetest among us, but not me.  And in the woods when Zoe and I walked this week, students were having barbeques.  She kept hoping someone would invite her to stay and eat a burger.

I thought of a note I'd received a couple weeks ago from my friend Sara.  She sent me this quote from Albert Camus:

"In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."

She told me she thought this was one of the themes of this blog, and I liked the quote so much that it's now up in the header as one of the two epigraphs.

Now it's going to be winter again: tonight, I heard, the temperature might go down to freezing here in the North Country.

I began the blog in December, when I was just completing a cycle of 108 straight days of meditating every morning and writing in my journal, which I explain on the home page here.

I was about to start again with another 108 days when my sister suggested (to be honest, it felt like a dare) that I write posts to the world, instead of journals to moi.  So you can blame said sister, Mira Bartok, dear reader, for all this folly.

I wrote about my sister often, especially on her birthday, on Day 76: On Sister Love.

When I was a third of the way through, and then two-thirds of the way through, I posted about what I have learned.  Rather than repeat myself, I'll hyper-link to those posts here and there.

Soon, I realized that while this blog is about time and about mindfulness, dogs and love, and finding the sacredness in everyday life, it is also very much about the writing life because I'm on leave to write this semester, and whatever I'm up to each day is fodder.  On Day 56, Gargoyles in Love: On Finding the Perfect Schedule, I landed on a good writing schedule that has helped me stay on track with my novel despite all the emotional upheavals that have taken place.

On Day 107 I wrote a post about the writing of this blog which encapsulated what I've learned as a memoirist in a new medium.  This was one of my favorite posts to write.

Zoe staring down her own shadow

Finding out a family member's days are numbered is heartbreaking, whether that loved one is human or, in this case, canine.  But numbering my own days has prompted me to live each of them more fully, and in many ways I have felt more alive than ever before.  Not just more alive: more like an animal.  More alert.  With senses primed.  And because I got so busy it took me a while to get a haircut, I was a lot more furry too.

My days with Zoe this past winter have produced some of the happiest memories I will ever have, even though they are tinged with sadness and the anticipation of loss.  I have found a resilience and a summer inside that has carried me through a long winter, and will carry my dog and myself forward into the next season, although what lies ahead is uncertain.

I want to thank some people for taking this wild ride with me.  Too many to name, and I know I'll leave people out and feel bad about it, but I'll try:  Mira, who made me do it.  Sara, Rebecca, and Marc, who read and commented on every single post!  Dr. Amy Thompson at Canton Animal Hospital who made the diagnosis and got us on the right track.  Dr. Peter Tropea, at St. Lawrence Valley Animal Hospital, who did the surgery.  The whole staff at Alta Vista, especially Donna, Willow, and Dr. Lena Bravo.  Tara Freeman, ace photographer of Zoe who also taught me how to take better pictures.  Veronika Hovathova's great pictures of Paris made their way into this blog, and I especially love her gargoyles.  Dawn R. and Cindy, friends since college and great writers and dog-lovers.  My nieces, Juliet and Fiona; my sister's step-daughters, Jya and Sianna; the inimitable Douggie Pee. Neal S, Becky H., Becky whose dog is Lily, Mrs. B's Sweeties, the Cleveland Baker Beauties: Mary Beth, Sandy, Herta, Stephanie, Cathleen, Eileen; hometown honeys Danielle, Cathy T (who drove us to Cornwall when Zoe became a tripod and gave me a beautiful photo album commemorating the day), Erin, and Eve; Dan S and his greyhounds, Macreena, Erik A., Chloe, Lukasz who shared from China, Jess W, Dennis, Josh S., Karen S (who took some great photos of Zoe) and her kids Andrea, Luke, and Luke's wife, Lisa, and their sweet dog, and entourage of Brittany and Emma; Olivia for soulful dog walks, Derek, Nancy, Judy, another Erin who subscribed, Chris and Iris, Patti L., Shaun, Diane and Fred, Margaret B., Mary H.,, Alex D., Scott R. Emma R. (who often shared on FB too), Susan and David, Pat A, Pat C and her whole family of dog-lovers, Jenny W in Montana., Kimi, Annalise, Nancy who subscribed, Writing as Jo(e), Brenda, Maddie, Ante, William B, Ned, Katie G, Sonya, Laura R., Lettie, Annie, Farmer Bob, Farmer Mike, Billie B., Sheri C., Janice G., James and Glenn and Milo and Emily, Jann S, Mackie, Alexis of the Adirondacks, Lizzie, my sister's facebook friends who started reading the links, Sadie the saucy dog cousin, Anne C.,, Jane N., Sarah B., Eliza R., Tom M., Dinty who just offered Zoe a "woof," Marina and John, Therese from Texas, and all the random people who agreed to be characters in these posts, sometimes after the fact, like Emma and Java in Ottawa, Milo the King Charles spaniel who thinks he's a greyhound, Max, Blue, Cooper, Maya, Sandra R. from Paris, Priyanka from New Delhi, and a dog belonging to a homeless man in Cassis and a dog named Rusty in a Post I had so much fun writing, 49:What the Dog Sees in Him.  There are other subscribers who are anonymous, and others who aren't but probably want to be, but I'm grateful to all of you for reading.

A special shout-out for Lettie Stratton, Erin Siracusa, and Rebekkah White, for agreeing to do guest-posts, all three of which were beloved by many. What great writers I have been blessed to have in my classes!

And I want to thank Shelley Kandola for designing the blog for me and helping me whenever I had an IT issue.  If you need someone to help you with your blog, she's available freelance and I'll hook you up!  And my sister yet again for helping me tweak the design and for tweeting.

I'm leaving with Zoe today for Vermont, then a visit with my sister.  After a few days off from posting, I'll begin a new cycle of writings again by next weekend.  I'm not sure, but I think I'll start up again on April Fool's Day.

Namaste, dear readers.  May you have a lovely, restful Sunday, and a good week, whatever season it feels like.

All best wishes,
Natalia

Day 82: On Grappling with Fear and the Nature of Impermanence

Today I woke up at 3 in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep.

That's because today is the first day that Zoe will be taking a new drug for her cancer, Palladia.  The information sheet that went with it is not reassuring.  It says, on the one hand, that Palladia "may shrink your dog's tumors."  Well, duh, that's the point. But then it goes on to list possible side-effects, which include loss of appetite, diarrhea, blood in the stool, and in rare cases, death.

This begs the question once again: Why are we doing this?

Of course, if Zoe can't tolerate the drug, we'll pull her off it at once.  And then we'll just give her the best life possible for however long she has.

But that reasoning doesn't help at 3 in the morning, when I am picturing the pill divider on the counter that awaits us--Kerry and I divvied up all the AM and PM doses of this and that last night.  With the Palladia, to fight against the bad side effects above, she will be on an anti-nausea drug, a form of Imodium, and an antacid.   She'll be taking all these on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

And as for Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and the other anti-cancer drug that Alta Vista Animal Hospital was out of that we now have to arrange to buy ourselves--Cyclophosphamide: the list on-line of those side effects is even longer.

At least Sunday, which is our day of rest in this house, will be a day of rest for Zoe as well.  A retreat from the world of pharmaceuticals.

It's a lot.  At one time, before I had read anything, I had thought being able to administer her drugs orally would be so much less painful for her than the intravenous treatments she has had for the past five and a half months.

Now, not so much.  For the first time in a long time, I find myself questioning the path we're on.

Up until now, Zoe has responded so well to every single thing we've done to fight the cancer and prolong her life that it's been difficult at times to really grapple with the seriousness of what she's facing.

Yesterday we walked for 90 minutes at Indian Creek Nature Preserve with her pal, Cooper, and his person, Pat, and the radiant sky, that deep bowl of blue, and the sparkling new snow brought out the sheen in our dogs' eyes and their lovely coats.

Zoe is so strong and steady.  This picture of her, at the top of the post, captures her nature so well.

When it comes to epic things, like fighting cancer and getting home in a snow storm, she is a tree with deep roots.

She's a big baby about other things.  Whenever anyone leaves the house, she cries.  Thunder storms and heavy wind: they terrify her.
But as my husband and I fight to extend her life, I know that we are drawing much of our strength from her.

And yet, and yet: These past eight months since we noticed Zoe's limp and entered the realm of pet oncology, a place we never thought we'd go, have been, oddly, among the richest and moving and lovely of my life.

I have learned, first of all, how to be here.  In this place.  Where I stand.  Not just rooted to the North Country, reluctant to make any plans in the near future that might take me away from my dog, but rooted in my feelings, including this fear that woke me up today.

When I meditate now, I take to heart the words of Thich Nhat Hanh, below:

This is your own time.   This spot where you sit is your own spot.  It is on this spot at this very moment that you can become enlightened.  You don't have to sit beneath a special tree in a distant land.  Practice like this for a few months, and you will begin to know a profound and renewing delight.

Your True Home, The Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh

I understand this teaching not just in the fifteen or twenty minutes I spend sitting down in my corner and counting my breaths.  When I remember this wisdom, I understand that whatever I am doing--working on my novel, talking to a friend, going to a meeting, cooking dinner, and especially, perhaps above all, walking with Zoe in the woods near our house, is my/our time in my/our spot.  I forget this all the time too, when I'm rushed or distracted, but I do come back to this understanding.

And what I have learned about impermanence is this.  Nothing lasts forever, but that doesn't mean we have to be detached from our lives in a way that makes us feel less.  The nature of impermanence has taught me to love and live more deeply than I ever have.  We don't have a minute to waste.

But what I used to think was "wasting time" has turned completely on its head.

Literally.

I'll end with some pictures of what my dog has taught me about ordinary happiness.  Let's call this photo-series the canine understanding of the six stages of Nirvana:

 
Do try this at home, alone, or with a good friend.

Namaste, gentle reader, and thank you for reading.

Day 81: The Cure for the Winter Blues is Winter

Yesterday I hadn't recovered from the white-knuckle drive from Canada in the winter storm, and even by midday I still felt wired and exhausted and anxious.  Zoe, however, woke up in great form to a world transformed by snow.  She ran for an hour with her favorite golden retriever, then joined me upstairs,  lounging nearby while I posted about the epic journey.  She told me by her manner, especially in the calm way she studied my face as I wrote, that I needed to move on.

At 2:30 we headed out for what I thought might be a short amble.  By the time we got to the bridge, breaking through drifts on sidewalks that hadn't been shoveled, my spirits had improved considerably and I wasn't tired anymore.  All I had to do was look at Zoe.  It was impossible not to smile.

Zoe loves winter.  She loves winter because she loves snow.  She loves to eat it, roll in it, wear it, pee in it, chase other dogs in it, or just sit in it and stare off at the river and trees exuding soulful wolfy mojo.

We haven't had much snow this winter, only ice.  In the woods we were breaking our own trail in drifts nearly a foot deep.  It felt good to work up a sweat while snow fell around me and Zoe leaped and rolled and panted with joy.

Out on the other side of these woods Zoe pointed in the direction of her friend Cooper's house.  From the street I got out my cell phone and called his person, Pat, and she invited us to come right over.

While Pat got ready to join our walk, I went to her back yard and watched the dogs race each other down the steep embankment to the river and then back up.  This is the steepest hill Zoe's been on since she became a tripod, and she bounded up nimbly through deep drifts.  When Zoe peed--she's a little alpha with Cooper and likes to spray her graffiti, her "Zoe was here" in his territory--he leaned his head on her neck companionably.  Then the two dogs kissed.  It's a little tap on the nose, snout to snout.  Like our version of cheek kisses, or a high-five.

Why, why, why didn't I have my camera with me?

And on we went, the four of us, back through the woods and up into the campus.  Pat and Cooper showed us where a fire had erupted in the chemistry lab and blew out several windows and sent smoke careening clear across the river to our street.  The campus had to be evacuated for a week while crews cleaned up the damage.  We shared stories about our own days in chemistry lab.  In high school, I teamed up with Bob Fitzer, who was the smartest boy in our class.  He did the science, and I wrote up the reports.  It was a great system as far as I was concerned, but you'd have to ask him if he agreed.  Our teacher, Mr. Leahy, never stuck around long to supervise.  He was reportedly off drinking with the janitors when he left us alone in the classroom to cook up whatever we could cook up in an hour over our bunsen burners.

We thought about the mysterious properties of incendiary chemistry, which made me think about good chemistry: about what makes two dogs click.  When Zoe and Cooper walk together, we are always on the alert for what we call the lean-in.  That's when they match each other's strides and Cooper leans into Zoe as they run.

We also enjoy the way they come together to sniff the same shrub, then part ways briefly to pursue their own interests.  It's like a conversation with pauses that no one feels anxious to fill.

For 90 minutes I watched my dog run through snow drifts, roll around, stick her snout in almost to her eyes, and listen to the call of the wild.  All the stress of the previous day melted away.

When we got to a hill where some children were sledding, Zoe even had the temerity to yell at the kids' dog.  She said, I am queen of this hill.

I rarely feel as frazzled as I did this weekend after driving in a winter storm on unplowed roads in a car I didn't truly know how to stop.  I thought it was going to require everything in my medicinal repertoire to get my balance back: a long bath, extra meditation, good wine, yoga, multiple naps, and a Downton Abbey marathon.

But after this walk with Zoe, I'm in love with winter again.  And if you still love winter in the North Country in late February, life is pretty sweet.

Cooper

Day 67: Let it Snow!

After weeks of freezing rain and ice, it finally happened.  Zoe looked out the window and reported to her person that it was snowing.

Zoe explored the balcony.  Winter, anyone?

It looks like winter.  It smells like winter.  But perhaps we should explore the back yard.

 The snow fell like shooting stars.  Everything was new again.

Zoe's person was starting to think snow was just a thing of the past, like phone booths, video stores, frozen yogurt, and people who say "You're welcome" instead of "no problem."

When Zoe wants to go on a walk, she has ways.  She doesn't have to ask twice.  Her person alerted her male companion and suggested a winter walk.

They set out for the golf course.  For as far as they could see, the fields were white.  That expansiveness in winter creates a spaciousness of mind.  Every fresh snow is like a fresh start. 

Whoops!  There's still ice underneath this snow.

When it snows in February in the North Country, life shines with new possibilities.

Each paw print and each ski track are the graffiti of living beings saying "I was here," and "thank you."

And sometimes, when the weather and sunlight and snow are right, you might run into some old friends without even planning to see them.  Then you know that all is as it should be.

Susan, Maya, and Zoe. These dogs know the drill.

When a treat falls to the ground, they are occasionally polite.