Namaste

I recently started a yoga practice. By all means, please take a moment and imagine clueless beginner yogi me: chubby and only mildly coordinated, still regaining full use of my left foot after crushing it earlier this year, trying to find inner peace (and not fall over) in a house full of curious cats and dogs. You probably underestimate the hilarity. I have had dogs gradually melt across my mat and a cat grapple my calf while I sought the proper balance in Warrior One. I have had retired service dogs decide I am clearly in need of help. It’s been a show.

But it’s been good. I’m coaxing my body to remember the suppleness of long ago ballet lessons and the centered strength of fearlessly running down curbs. It’s bringing me back to a connection with my body that’s too easy to lose in my busy modern life. It’s true self care.

Before I started practicing yoga, the short list of things I knew about it included the word “namaste.” It’s not surprising; it’s so evident in yoga of all kinds that in many circles it has become a shorthand for New Age pretension. At first I felt self conscious saying it, and sometimes still do, but that feeling begins to fall away as I form a deeper connection to just what namaste is. It’s a greeting at times, a benediction at others, but more than that, it is a philosophy that anchors the spiritual roots of yoga and branches out to brush against every other part of life.

The philosophy of namaste means “the divine in me bows to the divine in you.” It’s a process of recognizing that the same universal energy exists in all of us. It’s about looking at other people and seeing the soul instead of the body. It’s a quest to find light in everyone around you. It’s a beautiful way to approach the world.

I think that namaste should come naturally to those of us standing on the “animal people” end of the pet owner spectrum. It’s just another interpretation of that moment when we look into an animal’s eyes and see a soul looking back where so many others see “just an animal.” It echoes the empathy we have for our dogs’ internal lives and they have for ours. It recognizes the spark of connection that draws us so close to our chosen family. To be honest, I think it can be easier to embrace namaste with animals than with humans--there are so many fewer words to get in the way, fewer expectations, less ego. Dogs simply are themselves, and they encourage the same in us. They are as eager to find genuine connection as we are, and far less afraid.

The connection is joy; quick and bright. The love is natural, almost effortless, but deeper consideration of namaste brings a responsibility to light. If we can see the soul in our dogs, feel it, we have to respect it. Namaste calls for us to bow to the divine in others, to humble the self to allow compassion, empathy, the reverence that is inseparable from true love. Dogs are not objects; they are not automatons; they are not extensions of us or expressions of our ambitions. They are their own souls, complete in themselves, and if we claim to love them we must allow them that.

I seek to always respect the soul in my dogs. For me, that means meeting their fear with support, their frustration with compassion, their joy with enthusiasm, and their devotion with gratitude. I don’t try to master them, because who am I to hold any soul but my own? I can’t step away from them, because I promised them they would not be alone when I took them into my family. I stand beside them, our hearts and minds growing ever closer as we find a balance that allows both souls to live together, bending where needed to balance and respect each other.

It’s kind of like yoga.

Yoga’s a lot like love.

The Silver Lining of a DM Diagnosis

This has been a sad week in the broader family of Leonberger people (or, as my fiance lovingly and only half-jokingly calls us, the Leo Cult). Four people in my sphere of acquaintance have lost their dogs this week, three at single-digit ages.

There’s a heart-clenching fear when you read things like that; a sudden realization of just how momentary the heartbeat at your side can be. It makes you want to immediately cling to your dog and whisper in their ear, “Please stay.” Deaths have hit me harder since we reached the point where most of my dogs are seniors; harder still since Ginny’s degenerative myelopathy diagnosis. The fear is more visceral; my empathy for the grief sharper and more immediate.

I was on my lunch break at work, some seven and a half hours into the fifteen-hour last shift of a grueling week, when I scrolled through Facebook and saw the name of a dog I had loved (from afar) since he was a puppy followed by the awful finality of paired dates and literally choked on grief. I felt the sudden urge to get up and leave, to tell my team, “I’m really sorry, but I really need my dog.” One might think fatigue had something to do with the tears I couldn’t hold in, but I know better; I’d have cried even more at home. I sat at that conference table, before a litter of paperwork and tupperware, and cried until I could drag air into an aching chest. That was my grief; I know it pales in comparison to his family’s.

The shock makes it worse, I think. So often we have little to no warning before they leave us. It was that way with Pickles; he was playing in the yard and half an hour later he was gone. It takes loss and twists it, makes it even more unreal and traumatic. I found myself thinking, dumbfounded, that Rutger couldn’t die--he was fine! I never saw any sign he was sick. But my disbelief didn’t made that second date go away.

That was when I got to thinking that there are many worse ways to lose your dog than degenerative myelopathy. DM is, by its nature, a gradual loss. You see it coming. The diagnosis is a shock, but you have time to adjust, time to understand, time for your grief to gentle. It’s been two months (almost to the day) since I looked at my friend and said, “I feel like she’s getting worse,” and she replied with a solemn, certain, “Yes.” Two months since we loaded her up to go to the ER. Two months since I learned not being able to ascertain back pain could be a very bad thing. Two months since she told me, as gently as possible, that the ataxia wasn’t going to get better. Two months since I realized my dog, my baby, my sweetest girl, was headed for the Bridge.

It’s been a long two months.

But that two months has been time. It’s been time to get used to the idea that our days are limited; time for so many “one more time”s. When the time comes I can know I won’t regret wasted days, because we know what’s coming, so we aren’t wasting any.

That’s not to say it’s easy. It hurts every time Ginny stumbles; I’m afraid every time she gets ahead of me and charges down the stairs like she’s healthy, still not realizing her back legs are failing her. I still whisper and cry into her fur, because not knowing if she’ll see Christmas or have another birthday is constantly there in the background of our days. But then we cuddle up and go to sleep and wake up and look, there’s another day with Ginny. Another smile. Another time she comes up behind me while I’m standing in the kitchen and rests her silky head against my thigh, asking to be stroked if I can get a hand free. I always find that I can.

Jeannette Walls wrote, “One of the hardest things you will ever have to do, my dear, is grieve the loss of a person who is still alive.” I don’t know if that’s true in this context. I know it hurts, but it doesn’t hurt more than the sharp, breathless shock of sudden loss. I don’t know if grieving now will make our eventual parting any easier. But I know that I am grateful for the time, and for the chance to find out.

Starting Over

If there's one thing training has taught me, it's that when something isn't working, you need to step away, reevaluate, and come back to it when you feel you're ready. I liked the idea of blogging, but I wasn't ready.

Now I think I am. It's been a few (okay, more than a few) years. I'm older, the dogs are older, hopefully we're all a bit wiser, and maybe we have something worthwhile to say.

So here we go again!

Pup Chair

In the living room at Hooligan House, we have a papasan chair. It is Candice's retreat of choice.

It is also the "pup chair".

First of all, this chair has definitely seen better days. For some reason, every pup we've ever raised or kept has wanted to chew on that chair. Even the ones that didn't chew on other things! I'm not sure if it's the fact that the frame is bamboo or if there's something in the varnish, or what. I'm sure we'll get around to replacing it someday, but it's honestly not high on the list.

But it's not just an attempted chew toy. It's a favorite nap spot for the pups, too, from little Pickles all the way up to Ginny-girl. All of our pups have been hopping up in that chair for as long as we have had them. For the most part, they get into the papasan chair without it even stirring.

Yet somehow, Katana has still not mastered the art.

She tends to jump a little too high, or a little too far, and hit the top of the chair, rocking it so it slides and ends up sitting like a nest instead of a chair. I tend to shake my head and sigh at the klutz.

But as I look at her today, laying in her "nest", perfectly comfortable, front paw and chin resting on the front edge, it occurs to me for the first time that she might be doing it on purpose. Perhaps she's just customizing the pup chair to best suit her. Hmm.

Maybe the Jester is smarter than we give her credit for....

Bad day....

Let me preface this by saying that I'm not that into self pity. I rarely mention my medical issues, and you won't hear about them much. But everybody needs their chance to whine, and besides, my chance to whine comes with a chance to brag on a Hooligan, so it fits.

RA sucks. There is nothing I have ever experienced quite like never knowing when a joint is going to give. Just now I reached for my water glass, and my elbow...well...I'm not sure how to describe it. It didn't pop, it...slipped is the closest word I can think of. You can feel the bones sliding past each other in an entirely unnatural way. And it hurts. All day, every day, some days worse than others.

Today was a "worse than others" kinda day. I know it's going to be when the Hooligans start the day licking my joints and gazing at me with deep canine concern. And all of them, in their own little ways, help me through these worse days.

Pickles is extra sweet and glued to my side, giving me all the comfort and warmth his little body can muster.

Katana picks up the many things I drop in the course of a day, to save me the bending.

D'Artagnan keeps the girls in line. He plays with them and keeps them busy enough that they don't miss it when I have to skip their walk. He also fusses at them if they get too boisterous.

Ginny is my angel. She catches me when I start to fall, she walks at my s-l-o-w pace at my side, better than a cane because she requires no grip. And best of all, when I have to climb Hooligan House's 14 stairs, she's right there to give me a hand.

Some people (I suspect many of my family members are among them) think I'm nuts for living with a house full of dogs with my health so shaky. Surely, I fall enough without risking being knocked over by a dog?

But here's the truth--I'm not sure I could get through the bad days without them. And aside from the services listed above, they lift my spirits, make me smile through the pain, and give me a reason to get out of bed and move (which keeps my condition from degrading quite so quickly).

Love those Hooligans.

Castles in the Air

I admire beautiful houses.

I love their perfect glossy floors. I cherish their pristine furniture. I revel in the elegance of clean counters and tables and everything tucked away where it belongs. I deeply envy their elegant accessories artfully arranged on gleaming surfaces. Truly, I find an almost zen state in beautiful homes.

And then I return to Hooligan House.

And, well, there's water all over the kitchen floor where Ginny and D'Art walked away from the bowl with mouths still full of water. There's a jumble of junk mail on the baker's rack, a stack of catalogs and half-read books on the end table. My old throw is carelessly slung over the arm of the couch--not at all an artful drape. And you can tell it's got a picture woven into it, but, well, there's no telling what it is. Er, is that my throw pillow in the floor? Oops. The upper cushions of the couch are all squished from the cats and Pickles laying on them. And let's not forget...there's hair EVERYWHERE. I haven't vacuumed in three or four days--oops--and there are hairballs in the floor and hair all over my couches. My few pretty things are carefully stuck on upper shelves where a stray tail won't knock them over...I try to find ledges too narrow to attract the cats. Smudges abound.

And I am welcomed not by a gracious hostess, but by a thundering herd of DOG. Bouncing, panting, yipping, rumbling, happy happy dogs. Somebody's undoubtedly got a wet mouth, and I'm being sniffed head to toe. Within seconds, I am returned to my natural state--covered in hair and nose smudges. At least the cats don't rush me--they're too comfortable, ensconced as they are on my clean laundry or my bed pillows.

And I know that the very idea of me living in one of those beautiful homes I admire is a castle in the air--beautiful, yes, but unattainable.

This place, though, my Hooligan House, suits me fine. It's broken in and lived in, and yeah, it's never perfect, ever. But coming home is like slipping into an old sweatshirt. And I guess when it comes down to it, I'd rather be comfortable than beautiful. Beautiful's an awful lot of work.

And as much as I have always loved beautiful things, I haven't found a vase or sculpture yet more beautiful to me than the faces of my dogs. Elegant in proportion, beautiful in design, and never the same twice.

Besides, who wants a castle in the air anyway? There's no yard for the dogs to run in. ^-^