My horse sister called to ask how I was. It wasn’t small talk. We tell each other the truth and it took a beat to answer. There were so many parts. “I’m exhausted,” I said. “It’s been such a hard year.”
“Anna, it’s only April,” she said. And we both chuckled and quickly slid into laughter, more horror than humor. Then, like rolling down a hill, we were guffawing with a tight lacing of hysteria. It lasted too long for a joke that wasn’t funny. Now we were cackling like headless chickens. It felt good to laugh. It felt like horrible guilt to laugh.
We were both negotiating sweet elder dog ailments, balancing quality against the reckoning we knew was coming. The meds were working for her dog, but I’d lost my old friend. Preacher Man died on Valentine’s Day. The echo of his incessant yapping and yahooling haunted me with more acoustic hyperbole than ever. Losing a beloved dog is not an isolated loss. Saying goodbye brings the others back. All the dogs who have passed me, one to the next, walking me through life. I’m the hand-me-down.
It wasn’t just Preach dying. It was losing Sebastian, my last llama. He worked farm security, greeting every visitor by standing much too close and checking their breath. And it was witnessing the decline of all the retired horses over the winter, their bittersweet eyes quieter, their naps longer. Edgar Rice Burro bore his chronic hoof degeneration with stoic reserve. What can we do but spend more time, him resting his great head in my arms. The contrary goat’s limp is more pronounced. Or maybe Arthur just butts me for sport. I probably deserve it. The winter seemed to ache, sand-colored and cruel on the high prairie. Too little snowfall, but enough wind to whip paint off the barn. Spring always comes late at 7000 feet, but this year, did it even matter? I thought of snowbirds, not that I would ever leave my home.
It wasn’t just losses in the barn. I got news from long-lost Steve that a former mentor had died. It had been four years since I’d talked with her, and then it was a call about someone else who died. I pride myself on remembering my friends who have walked on. But as I did roll call, so many recent, I realized I’d forgotten a friend who died thirty years ago, around the time my parents died. I’d promised to remember them all, but it felt like more of my friends had died than I have left.
I don’t need to be told friendships ebb and flow, that animals grow old and die. But sometimes I can’t tell the difference between mourning and mild depression. How do I land this life? Do I just watch everyone die until it’s my turn?
And then there’s this. I’m a history and politics wonk, but I can’t remember another time when the entire world had spun so off kilter. It’s torn us apart. Torn me apart.
Self-care was probably the answer, but how many times can a Man From Snowy River film fest work? What if you hate girly things? I’d rather pull my nails out with pliers than get them done. I’d already eaten all the thin mints. So, I settled on replacing the thermostat in my A-frame trailer after ordering the right part the first time.
See? I dabble in whimsy. Crack wise with the words. Because gallows humor is a fundamental ingredient of aging cantankerously.
This mopey mental state is a little embarrassing since Affirmative Training is my thing. The last shreds of my sanity were clinging to the photos my horse sister shared of her new puppy. If I ever stop smiling at puppy pictures, toss dirt on me. It means I’ve forgotten there is a circle to life. Even terrible change doesn’t last forever. Spring would eventually come, so I made tea. The dark kind that needs milk to make it fluid enough to seep down my throat.
Then I waited with my dog, Mister, who remained out of sorts. Void of interest. His appetite was good, but being a corgi, that meant nothing. At first, I didn’t trust my read of Mister’s mental state. It’s not like he and Preacher played much. Only the rare bitey face challenge. Never a zoomie. Preacher was the sort who didn’t approve of tomfoolery. And Mister had always been a bit of a loner, a one-woman dog. Every evening, he muttered endless muffled barks, short and plaintive. “Boof. Boof. Boof,” I tried everything, but he persisted in his evensong. His tail followed him like it was too heavy to lift. He looked at me with dull eyes as I stroked his neck, willing him to snap out of it.
I asked opinions of my dog friends who had the right balance of knowledge without being catastrophically sentimental. Dogs have complex emotions, but that doesn’t mean they are the same as ours. What did they think? Six weeks trickled by. Was there new gray around his muzzle? Or did I imagine it, dazed by my own death spiral, reciting the roll call of every dog since childhood? Some people my age think the pain of one more death isn’t worth the joy. No, I’m not that dead yet. Not where it counts.
Okay, another dog, but it had to be the right dog. Mister was my priority. When clients ask me what kind of companion horse would be good for their mare, I shrug. With equal success, I could pick a spouse for that client.
It had been years since I picked a dog. And it’s not that I get all my dogs from Texas, but my friends there had connections. With seemingly little fuss, the next rescue just arrived. That’s how Preacher got here, and years later, Mister. But my friends were doing less rescue now. After long careers in animal welfare, they were exploring the ethical side of the dog show world. A huge learning curve and a few years later, their dogs had more letters after their names than Harvard professors. Not just the pretty-boy classes, but cool things like scent work and barn hunt. And now, their carefully selected, health-tested champion dogs welcomed a litter of nine. I welcomed them, wondering who reactive little Preacher Man would have been if he had gotten such a careful start. As if the litter had his blessing somehow, it felt bright and shiny to cheer for the good guys.
And Mister and I were on our own. Slouched in a hoodie sipping red wine, and Mister with chewies, we scrolled through rescues and pounds. I wanted to trust the next dog would make themselves recognizable. Mister is much more particular than me. None taller than him, none too flamboyant. Days went by. I thought it would be an elder dog no one wanted. Maybe an old one-eyed pirate with a broken over ear. A dog that would die before me.
Perhaps, dear reader, you know where this story is headed, but at this moment, I didn’t. So don’t ruin it for me. Besides, I am not the person who gets a psychic message from an undersized day-old puppy 800 miles away.
A thought from Maya Angelou, “My wish for you is that you continue. Continue to be who and how you are, to astonish a mean world with your acts of kindness. Continue to allow humor to lighten the burden of your tender heart.”
…
To be continued. Part 1 in a series.
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Onward thru the fog.
Floundering is an art. Thanks, Cindy
Oh Anna – I get to that place more often as years go by. Smurfie (cat) is only about 8 now but Axel will be 13 later this year, and his hearing has become worse than mine (which is not great) and his sight is not great (same as mine).
BUT the joy is so much MORE than the pain of loss.
I have very few horse friends left now – most have passed away. Others sort of moved on when I no longer had a horse to socialize about. Which is fine. The last trips to Chico’s barn & grave hurt too much so dont do that anymore.
Still donate to a couple Wild Horse rescues so get emails about their current rescues. I imagine with this current blather about public lands and forests etc – things are going to be really hard for them. Well it is and will be for all of us.
I’m so sorry about your losses – all of them.
Maybe mucking and consoling your burro, goat, horses and dog will help you push despair back where it belongs.
Mag
Thanks, Maggie. And yes, I am pushing back.
She wasn’t where she had been. She wasn’t where she was going…but she was on her way. And on her way she enjoyed food that wasn’t fast, friendships that held, hearts glowing, hearts breaking, smiles that caught tears, paths trudged and alleys skipped. And on her way she no longer looked for the answers, but held close the two things she knew for sure. One, if a day carried strength in the morning, peace in the evening, and a little joy in between, it was a good one…and two, you can live completely without complete understanding. She was on her way.
Jodi Hills
I had this poem hanging on my mare’s stall as she healed from a horrific pasture accident. It kept me sane each day. After she recovered we enjoyed ten more (joy-filled) years than we probably should have. Twenty years of joy in total. I pulled it out again after we buried her last month. It still manages to make me smile through the grief.
You always give me hope and smiles. Attempting to return some of it back to you…
Great poem, and I appreciate it, Cathy. Let’s make our way back together.
I honor the grief of losing another best friend, Anna. The silence is deafening. I think of the funeral I will attend tomorrow, about my boarder’s elderly mare who I found deceased a few weeks ago, and how my beloved cats are growing old. Despite it all, I increasingly surround myself with animals and the people who love them. Recently retired from government work (and initially feeling very lost), I started dog walking and dog sitting. I’ve met several wonderful families who love their dogs so much they will pay someone to spend the night with them. It’s heartening, and it helps me through the rough patches.
I cannot wait to hear the rest of the story!!
I love the changes, Lorri. Thanks and here’s to “retirement.”
Oy. Just oy. This one hit me in the gut…darn onions!!! In the space of 4 months a few years ago I lost my heart dog Wendal (the little bait dog who did in fact call to me over a thousand miles to help him, and still wanders my house…or is that my heart?), his best friend Jules, my father, and not one but two long-term exes (not quite as great a loss…they were, after all, exes for a reason). It was almost … almost… more than I could take. I had Dax, and I had my last old stinky roommate, James, but it was a near thing as to whether or not I’d drag my way out of the grief-laden fog. I’m not sure that I have yet, to be honest. It lies at the core of me, just waiting to untangle itself long enough to strike. My mother always used to tell me when I’d start whinging about something to just grit my teeth and get on with it. Increasingly that’s what I find myself doing in these dark days and my jaw is getting a tad sore. But then I look at little ol’ Jessie, still trying so hard to trust me, and even knowing what’s coming I just can’t betray her trust. After her? I don’t know. I feel a bit like a death doulah for dogs… So thank you for once again putting into words the unspoken universals. ((hugs))
Thank you, Paula. Yeah, the tough guy isn’t a fit for me, either. So, on we go, finding small beauties on the way.
Loved this read. As always, so on point. Thankyou 🙂
Thanks, Annie. More to come.
I’m right here with you. ❤️
Hey, Doshia. Good to hear from you.
💞❤️🩹💞
Thanks Candis.
Wow, hits home with a bullseye. Another beautiful, pertinent piece of writing. Thanks Anna.
Thanks, Dee. We are on a shared journey…
I believe most of us have been to the places you are visiting now. People, dogs, cats and horses have come in and out of my life too. We have a cemetery out back and I always talk to them. Some good byes are far worse than others but I am still here doing what I do. I try to stay mentally centered. Not easy. I have to turn off the TV and read. My brain likes these vacations.
Thanks, Diane. I kinda think we are all living similar lives… I love to read, too.
Hi Anna So sorry to hear you lost Preacher Man. It’s hard to go through such loss. My hubby passed away at the end of April-it doesn’t seem possible that I am now alone. Just returned from NY, seeing my only grandson graduate from NYU. Life does go on-whether we’re ready for it or not. Hope you are doing well. Take care.
Oh Susan, such a life altering loss. Take care, you. And chuckle along with me.
We, now, are down to one last gray-muzzled and most beloved dog after a lifetime of so many many animals sharing our lives. No horses, no chickens, no goats, no pack of unique and valued characters making us crazy and giving us so much joy and so much laughter. I scroll incessantly through dog rescue sites, looking for the answer, the one, who will give me the perfect answer to the uncertain future. A new love. I’m most drawn to the look-alikes of loved ones from the past, but that probably isn’t a reliable indicator. Would our little old Matilda like to have a canine companion or would she prefer to be our one and only? An older dog, but they might still outlive us and then? On and on. Well, can’t wait to hear the rest of your story – you’ve always provided valuable guidance, and/or the best questions at times like these.
That’s the deal… we don’t want to leave them but don’t want to live without them… Thanks, Chris.
So sorry for the loss of preacher man, and Sebastian. Everytime you write about loss and the sweetness of elder animals i am there with you. Guess if you have enough of them you are always on that road, somewhere.
heres hoping Mister enjoys the newbie and you get a rush of joy.
In my new home the horse side of things has felt harsh, with little joy, or peace. I miss my little patch of heaven and fondly imagine that it was never windy there, nor harsh, nor bitingly cold. but i know that even here on the fens it is not as whippingly cruel as it can be where you are.
i wish you new og an Mister joy, and a kind summer
Chris, that’s it. It’s a revolving door, sad and happy, changing places. I think I miss your old farm from here. In my mind, the animals are all still there, along with you. Memories of wonderful days. Take care, my friend.
For now maybe Mister would like to be the only dog. I had to put my older dog down last year. I called him my Daddy dog, his name was Scooter, but I got him after my Dad died and my mom was in a home so I didn’t have to go back and forth to Mesa, Az so much. Back them I was still teaching and gone all day so I had gotten him a friend. Actually it was a litter mate a year later.
But now just down to one dog. I have retired so I am home and have the horses. So far I don’t see another dog in our life but maybe one will show up. Who knows, but I don’t look.
Mister said no, but it doesn’t mean all dogs agree. You’re right. Who knows… Thanks, Virginia.
So moved by this Anna. Thank you for the words from Maya Angelou. Right foot, left foot, right foot, breathe.
Thanks, Rose. That’s the only way. I was thinking of her, as I’m sure you do. Love to you and those dogs!
The animals keep me going. The winter here was very dry and seemed to be about a month off normal cycle. We have been without a dog for over a year. We are going to visit family next month and I didn’t think it fair to a rescue dog to adopt and then park them in a kennel for 10 days. Once back from our travels we will start looking for a new companion. The cats will be offended. I would not miss the love for anything but it’s so hard when they pass. My condolences the loss of Preacher and Sebastian.
Mister believes that offending cats is good. He just doesn’t feel safe doing it himself. Have a good trip, Mary. Thanks.
Sigh. It’s a struggle to cope with living day to day in this real-time dystopian nightmare (end-stage capitalism x death of democracy.) I long to ostrich it out, but feel it’s the duty of folks who have less to lose, to at the very least witness what is happening to our country.
And sometimes it’s hard to enjoy my (superlative) canine companion – a delightful distraction – because I slip up and imagine that inevitable day in the future when he has moved on. Anticipatory grief. I succumb on the regular.
Be here now. Be here now. Be here now.
P.S. New puppy cliffhanger not appreciated 😉
Never too soon for anticipatory grief, I always say. Maybe for the dystopia and good dogs. Give him a scratch for me, Christian. And yes, it is my pleasure to dangle a toy.
Present day to day has become a nightmare. But yes this time does need WITNESSES.
Our family cats and dogs (and others) do their bit to make it survivable.
I could so relate to your writing about aging and loss. I am “only” 73 but am already seeing the things you are describing. Loss of family, friends gone too soon the coming on of an aging body, but I try not to let it stop me. Two replaced knees, one replaced hip and soon to be a shoulder. Why is my body failing me. Life lived hard doing things I love to. I love to hike and still do, but had to give up riding due to balance issues.
Still have and love our two horses. This writing so resonated with me, but cannot give into the losses but carry on with the one life we have left to live. Hang in there. Our goal now its to see all of our animals to their natural end being with us and never being separated from each other.
Thank you for this comment, Cheryl. That is the question I’m asking. What is my personal best at this point in life. What to release and what to begin.
Anna, thank you for having the courage and the skill to write about the really tough aspects of life. The work you do to provide this platform is indispensable because there is comfort among us in knowing that we are not alone in our life struggles and joys. Please do carry on.
Sending a healing salve for your heart, and a goodbye good boy for Preacher Man.
Thank you, Laurie. I think about the stages in life; terrible twos, hormonal teen years, etc. This age seems to be a really awkward one. Thanks for the salve… we share it back and forth.
I remember telling my primary (NP) that there are books for every stage of life – somehow there doesnt seem to be one for those of us who managed to survive to our 70s or 80s (or beyond). Wondering if this pain or feeling is “important” – if the lack of energy matters, etc. You know, all the feelings we are going thru at this stage of the game.
She got a chuckle out of it, but I wasnt kidding – I meant it!
But did she chuckle because it was funny or because it was awkward?
I have to say – she has a very good sense of humor plus common sense! Most of the medical women and men that are in my current “group” are the same. Which sure does help.
I live in California in the Forrest am 70 years old and still working full time as a nurse to support my hors, Jamaali, and my dog, Lucy. I can’t imagine what you do in that weather. I appreciate you, so much. Making the animals life’s delightful till the end. Such courage. Been getting kick out of Eddie Landers. He is on line, a horse trainer, and has no sense of humor, despite this he is hilarious. A throw back. I can’t help but think you would get a kick out of him. He says things like,”wild horses live a godly life and domestic horses lead a life of despair.” As he rubs his face. I just recently got bronchitis . Thought I was dying, couldn’t breath (I am a DNR) went to the MD and got antibiotics and steroids. There is always this point when essential oils are not cutting it. Think I am going to live.
Glad to hear it, Paula. Life is good.
I worked till I was 75 and until I had him put down – it was to support my horse in the style which he was accustomed to! Which is as it should be.