Say Goodbye ... Say Hello.
Or: Thinking like your dog will make you feel better
When we first enter this world, it’s as if we’re signing a really tough job contract. It’s an agreement that in exchange for life, we’re going to have to endure all the hard things that come with it: getting an education, finding a decent job, trying to get along with difficult people, and suffering physical and mental pain, trauma, and loss.
I don’t know about you, but if I could have wrapped my newborn brain around the enormity of this contract, I’m pretty sure I would have wrinkled it up and chewed it into a soggy ball as soon as I figured out how to put my hands in my mouth. This is because one of the hardest things for me to do is to accept big changes—to say goodbye to a certain part of my life as time inevitably marches on. When I turned ten, for example, I remember sobbing because I didn’t want to leave the single-digit ages behind.
That birthday seemed hard at the time, but I experienced a true calamity as a college music student. Dedicated to my cello since the delightful single-digit age of nine, I was certain I’d be spending my life performing Bach, Brahms, and Beethoven. But I injured my hand and suddenly could no longer play at all. You can probably guess that if your entire identity is wrapped up in a cello, your Life Contract is going to get some pretty big tears in it. I finally began to come to grips with my altered situation after about a year, but the struggle was agonizing. That contract of mine needed a lot of tape.
Many times since then, I’ve wondered why I keep getting so entrenched in a certain way of being (let’s just say that it didn’t end with music). Is this normal? And if most of us struggle with this at one time or another, what are we supposed to do about it?
To answer to the first question, I turn, as I so often do, to the topic of dogs. I bet any dedicated dog owner would agree with me that the tendency to rail against difficult changes in our dogs is a very typical human response. We know full well when we adopt a new dog that our Life Contracts are going to be tested to their utmost. Eventually, we’ll face a heartbreak stronger than when we lose some of our own human family members. The reasons are simple: dogs bond to their humans like hydrogen atoms to oxygen … and their lifespans are far shorter than ours. They don’t even live as long as cats or parrots, for goodness sake. It seems completely unfair that such an intelligent, devoted creature could reach middle age at six years old, and be ready to take the last step in its life cycle at little more than twice that.
Even knowing this, even with our human-brain capability of seeing past, present, and future all at once, we insist on befriending dogs. We hold them close, and we give a chunk of our hearts to them forever. I’ve said goodbye to three dogs so far, and I can assure you that it never gets easier, and I never stop missing the ones who’ve departed. Each dog is like a novel I might write, full of love and flaws and revising—I mean training—and did I say love?
Saying Goodbye: There comes a time when I can do no more to fix a story I’ve written. It’s complete, I adore it despite any residual imperfections, and I know it’s time to let it go. If I’m lucky, it’ll move onward in its path to publication. If not, I’ll put it aside for now. Either way, it’s super hard to say farewell to it (I understand why authors write sequels). But I take comfort in knowing that it’s still there, in my computer or in a picture on my wall, whenever my memories want to pay a visit.
Saying Hello: In the meantime, I continue to attach myself to new dogs, and I continue to write. These things are my answer to how to deal with life’s difficult changes. My old stories never really go away, and new ones never can replace them, but dogs and writing both keep me from dwelling in the past or worrying about the future for too long. My new dogs—or characters—allow me the pleasure of living in the present right along with them. Sometimes, they even remind me a little bit of my old ones, and there’s nothing more comforting than that.
Happy Tales!
This is so touching, Wendy! I found myself thinking of my good dog, Henley, and what a sweet companion she was to my kids and then to me in a new, challenging situation. I like to think she lived her best life in the country for the last 4 years of her life. Freedom like she'd never known and SNOW! Time to write.
Wendy, this is just so perfect, so true (although I am a Cat Person, I relate). I was working to explain "love" to one of my 4-year-old students who was missing his mom when she dropped him off. He told me, "I love her so much," through many tears. I said as I held him in my lap (he fell into my arms), "Love is complicated, isn't it? We love and feel so happy and that same love hurts like no other when we aren't with them. But, it's all good love, because good love, sticks." Thank you for your beautiful piece today, Wendy.