Recently, my sister lost a beloved dog and I sent her Mary Oliver's Dog Songs. I hoped that it would comfort her, offer her a bit of solace and a smattering of beauty in the midst of grief. I was happy when she said it did all that.
What I didn't know, in early September, was that as October ended I would be in sore need of Dog Songs, too.
Mary Oliver was more than a dog lover, she was a dog chronicler, a dog bard, a recorder of all things dog-like and lovely.
Oliver hung out with her dogs, talked to them, and extrapolated poetry from their existence. This is from one of her imagined talks with her dog Ricky, during which they were watching a dog show on TV:
“If I ever meet one of these dogs I’m going
to invite him to come here, where he can
be a proper dog.”
Okay, I said. But remember, you can’t fix
everything in the world for everybody.
“However,” said Ricky, “you can’t do
anything at all unless you begin. Haven’t
I heard you say that once or twice, or
maybe a hundred times?”
You can't do anything at all unless you begin.
Eleven and a half years ago, we began something. We became dog owners (Dog adopters? Caretakers? Dog companions?) for the first time. I was fifty years old and I'd never had a dog, but my girls had always wanted one. Ramona was eight, Betsy was fourteen, Anne-with-an-e sixteen. Atticus had never wanted a dog. I was kiiiiiind of open to it, but unsure, so we played good cop/bad cop. I'd say, "Well, I'm open to a dog, but your dad will never say yes." That was my safety net. Then one day, the girls were looking at the shelter website, cooing over a pretty border collie/cattle dog mix, and Atticus walked past them, looked at the screen, and said, "Do you guys want that dog?" They responded with a resounding "Yes!" and he said, "Okay, I guess we could get that dog."
Wait. I thought we were playing good cop/bad cop? Now the bad cop was on their side?
We were getting a dog.
She was living at a no-kill shelter. Her name was Sydney; she was about two years old, but no one knew for sure. She had been adopted once and then returned to the shelter. Sydney was a little neurotic, kind of OCD, and, well, maybe not quite as smart as the average border collie/shepherd mix, but what she lacked in smarts and go-getter attitude she made up for in sweetness. "She just loves to be with her people," the shelter owner told us.
I've always been a cat person. When I was growing up, cats were omnipresent. Tabbies and calicos, kittens, and big toms. I've always loved cats. When Sydney came to live with us, we had a cat. (We still have Mr. Putter. He's 18 and going strong, aside from a little thyroid medication. He can be so sweet, and also jerky, but we love him anyway.)
I knew cats. They were quiet and low-maintenance. We could leave them alone for a day or two when we went out of town. They didn't demand to go outside in a blizzard. On the other hand, I didn't know how to live with a dog. Dogs, as sweet and cute as they can be, can also be gross and horrible and loud and sloppy. And there was just all that stuff that I'd never thought of. Every time we planned a trip, I'd forget to schedule boarding. We started buying food in 40-pound bags. Do you know how heavy those are? (I know. Forty pounds.) Everything about dog life was new, but Sydney began teaching me. We started walking together. She went with us when we did our version of camping. (A fully equipped cabin, thank you.)
There isn't really much more to tell. I became Sydney's alpha, she became my dog. She was, of course, also Ramona's, Betsy's, and Anne-with-an-e's beloved dog. Atticus scared her at first — not because of anything he did, of course, but because she was frightened of men in general. It took her years to stop barking at him every time he headed to the basement. (What did someone do to this poor dog in a basement? I can't think about it.) It took her several years to stop protecting me every time Atticus approached me. (What did someone do to a woman in front of this poor dog? I can't think about that either.) She never got over her fear of fly swatters, so suffice to say that we simply didn't swat flies in front of her. We were patient with her and she was patient with us. I just didn't know I was a dog person until I was a Sydney person.
Before any of us knew it, she was old. Her jet-black cheeks, her eyebrows, her lashes were gray. She moved a little more gingerly. Our three-mile walks hadn't been happening for several years. Now I walked her for a little while in the morning, dropped her off at home, headed back out on my own.
But she was fine! Or so we thought, until she swiftly, suddenly wasn't. We had to tell our sweet girl goodbye last week. On Poetry Friday, October 29th, we held her for the last time.
This next part is going to sound so utterly sentimental. If you can't stand dog stories, avert your eyes now and don't say I didn't warn you. Friday night, after buckets of tears that I never thought I'd be capable of shedding over a dog — gross, loud, sloppy creatures! — I had a dream. In my dream, it was snowing. The kind of exquisitely soft, fluffy snow Syd loved. I went to the front door and there she was. "Sydney!" I cried out, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the vet! How did you get here?" I reached out but she was gone, happily bounding out of sight, out of reach, but calling over her shoulder, "I'll be back!"
(I warned you.)
You can't do anything at all unless you begin.
~ Ricky,
and Mary Oliver
I'm so grateful I began with Sydney.
~~~~~~~~~~
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Sydney, last year on Valentine's Day,
looking toward the future.
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