“Let me go! Let me go!”
“No way, Aussie.”
“I’ll be good. Just one time!”
“There’s a scent out there, olfactory retard!”
“How come Harry gets to run and I don’t?”
“Because I can’t take you both on leash into the woods, it’s too difficult. And when Harry’s off-leash and smells a scent, Aussie, he runs and comes right back. I’ve timed Harry every day and he has yet to come back later than 2 minutes. If he ever comes back later than 5 he’ll go on leash, too.”
“Once! Just let me run once!”
“No, Auss. I’m done.”
“Since when has you become so rigid? This is unlike you. This is most—most—unZen!”
“Au contraire, Auss, it’s very Zen.”
“Oh yeah? What’s Zen about it?”
This is not about Aussie, I realize it’s about me. For 15 months since her arrival I wouldn’t let go of a fantasy built on the past, that this dog, like two previous generations of dogs over 22 years, would do what they did and be a walking companion in the woods. She’d sniff at the roots of trees and dig up suspicious tunnels, she’d run after deer like any self-respecting dog but would always, always come back after a few minutes. We’d enter the woods together and leave together.
That fantasy had lots of accessories: a house or cabin near the woods, daily meditations in forest, dog follows scent while I follow tracks, etc. I held on to this fantasy with accessories with all the stupid stubbornness I have historically manifested many times, other folks’ warnings notwithstanding.
And last week the fantasy came crashing down. I knew with sudden clarity that as long as Aussie behaves as she does, I will not let her go off-leash, even if that means for the rest of her life. It would mean fewer walks in the woods (not easy to walk a dog on leash in dense woods), fewer forest meditations. It took everything else down with it, such as a need to live close to the woods. There were new ingredients at hand: a different dog, a different time in my life, different needs. I lay in bed and realized that this liberated me to think of different housing possibilities, even a small apartment with a garden in back.
Let go of the past, bear witness to now, and life opens up, including possibilities you didn’t consider before. Whatever you end up doing, there’s always more freedom when I’m no longer imprisoned by what I did in the past, what I thought I needed, what I thought I couldn’t live without.
Bernie’s birthday is coming up on Saturday. These are always the tough days because they cluster together in a little over two months: his death, my birthday, our anniversary, his birthday. When I was sick and had trouble breathing, a few people told me that in Chinese medicine, difficulties in the lungs point to grief. I didn’t think I felt grief, I’d left much of it with his ashes at Auschwitz/Birkenau in early November, on the anniversary of his death.
But memories and dreams flood me at night. Memories of our first anniversary 11 months after his stroke, when I took him to a restaurant in Northampton and the celebration turned into a nightmare, bringing home the realization that taking Bernie anywhere on my own would come at a very high price. (Could we go to visit Ram Dass in Maui? Could we go to my brother-in-law’s 90th birthday party?) I said yes to those requests, wondering how we’d pull through, but he never summoned the energy for a flight to Hawaii and he died before his brother-in-law’s 90th.
With Aussie I held on to some fantasy about a dog-filled past that has nothing to do with now; I just wasn’t ready to let go. But now I know: That was then, this is now. And now deserves more exploration.
As long as there’s no deep snow on the ground I’ll go into the woods. One dog will be free to run (at least as long as he returns within a few minutes), one dog will be on leash. I will empathize with the dog that’s leashed by her own conditioning, her own habits and history, her own perpetual ways of doing things. I will watch Aussie plopping down on her butt from sheer bewilderment at this new reality, eyes, nose, and ears following Harry as he dashes off after a scent, only to return in two minutes.
“What a jerk. Why’s he coming back so soon?”
“Because that’s how he gets to go unleashed, Aussie. The minute you get back in two minutes I’ll let you run, too. Not that I’m holding my breath.”
“How’s 2 days?”
“Two minutes, Aussie.”
“How’s tonight? Promise to be back by midnight.”
“Two minutes, Cinderella.”
“How’s two hours?”
“You’re wasting my time, Aussie.”
“Next Monday at 4? OK, by the weekend. I promise to be back by the weekend!”