The Heart Trail

I’ve been avoiding the Heart trail since Roxie died.

I’ve still been going into the woods, but taking a distinctly different trail with a very different personality. I told myself I wanted a change--a longer route, and I have been enjoying it very much.

But Saturday I didn’t have time for the longer hike and I decided to take the Heart trail for the first time in months. I didn’t think much about it. It was just a quick, convenient hike. I wasn’t even thinking about my pup when I set off, I was just getting my time outside.

The Heart trail is close to my house. All I have to do is walk down my suburban street, turn and walk a short way up another road and I come to the trail entrance. There I wander along a stream through the woods before heading up. It’s really steep and intense for a while until you come to a big, mighty oak tree. Here, the unmarked trail meets the Heart trail. I call it the Heart trail because some lovely soul has marked the trees with hearts to guide your way up. There is something beautiful about every kind of tree--maple, beech, oak, birch, pine--bearing this symbol of love on your way through the woods. It stirs something in me. I almost always raise my camera to capture one.

So this day, I unsuspectingly make my way up and my blood is really pumping. My other walk is longer, but not as immediately intense and this takes me a bit by surprise. I round the huge oak and see the first heart.  It has been a while and I have missed them--each with their own personalities on the different textures of bark.

I continue to make my way up, the trail familiar and comforting, when the first tears start to come.

This was our trail, Roxie and I. This was the walk that inspired the idea for my 5 Grate Things and Roxie used to wait patiently as I sat on my rock and closed my eyes and came up with my daily list. When I was finished, she’d happily bound ahead--sniffing and wagging, the tip of her white tail alerting me to where she disappeared to in the mist. All I had to do was bark out, “Here!” and she’d leave whatever scent she was on and come running back to my side.

My tears quickly turn to sobs and I have to stop my ascent. I sit on a rock, put my face in my hands and wail. I cry good and long and hard, the trees and the creatures my only witnesses. The wind embraces my cries and carries them away on her back.

​I don’t want Roxie to be gone. I want my companion. I want to see her and feel her and smell her. I don’t want to feel this pain.
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I wrote the following piece about a year ago, when my best friend’s dog was dying. I never did anything with it, never shared it. I just let it sit. I dig it up when I return home, searching for comfort:

                                                                                   The Power of a Dog

Every morning when I come down the stairs, my dog cannot contain her excitement. Her legs alternately tap the floor as her tail whips around like a helicopter blade. She moans with such excitement, it sounds as if she may explode: Oh my gosh, I love you! I love you so much, I can hardly bear it! Oh my, Oh my, Oh my!!

Most days I'm getting up with the sole intention of taking my girl for a walk. She is my early morning motivator. The thought of her sure enthusiasm draws me out of my warm, snug bed. I love taking her into the quiet morning world, watching her run ahead of me-- sniffing the grass and making her mark.

But there is the occasional day when I just don’t have the energy for the dependable flurry--maybe I haven’t slept well or a child has been ill. I descend the stairs and I can barely face the hysteria. I just don’t have the energy for all the energy. My dog-guilt forces me to mutter, "Oh, give it a fucking rest already!” and I put her outside without making eye contact. But she doesn’t understand that I had a hard night, and her brown eyes seek me through the glass... "What? What’s going on? Aren’t we going this morning?”

But that's the thing about a dog--I can slight her again and again and the moment I step outside and say, "Wanna walk girl?" the legs will immediately start dancing and the butt will wiggle and the tail will take off. I will be forgiven.

I got my dog from my best friend. I didn’t want a dog at that time. My twins were only two-years-old and we had four other kids. My plate was already full. But my friend’s purebred Bernese Mountain Dog had an accidental litter and she wanted us to have one.

We made the mistake of visiting the litter with our kids. My only daughter was seven at the time and of course fell instantly in love with this mass of insanely adorable creatures. There was no way we were passing up this deal, even I was smitten.

Rox.

We named our pup Roxie because his mother is Moxie and our last beloved dog was named Rex. We thought it would be hard to have two toddlers and a pup, but we were wrong. It was a blast. Roxie learned fast and was nothing but a ball of joy. And now, in a blink, my twins are eight, my pup is six and as I write this, her mother is dying.

Bernese Mountain Dogs are not a breed known for their longevity. This was part of our trepidation in obtaining Roxie. Their average lifespan is six to eight years, but my friend had a few dogs that only lived to be two or three. I had already gone through the death of a cherished dog and I didn't know if I wanted to take the risk of loving a dog for such a short time. It took me several years to fully mourn the loss of our Rex. To someone that isn’t a dog person, this may sound ridiculous, but if you have loved a dog, you understand. The day after Rex died I had to attend a school function and I passed a woman whom I see often. We struck up a conversation and I of course had to mention that my dog had died--my heart was heavy and I needed to explain why I wasn’t myself. Her reply is one that I will never forget: She simply said, “Ah, well, get a new dog.” And then she turned and walked away.

I stood there in shock. What?? What?? All I could think was: I hate you. I really hate you. How could someone not get this? Can’t she see how my heart ached? I loved that creature so fucking completely and he’s gone...he’s just gone. When I reached the safety of my home, I crumbled and I wept. My hate and rage flowed through me and washed away with my tears. I understood that the woman wasn’t trying to be malicious, she just didn’t know. She had obviously never felt the power of a dog.

Rex was a beautiful lab/golden mix. We got him as a puppy before we had kids an we considered him to be our baby. But then the first human baby arrived and Rex was abruptly displaced. That's the natural progression of things: young couples get a puppy first, but then the real baby arrives and ousts the dog every time. Rex took the demotion as most respectable dogs do--he gracefully settled into second place.

Rex and the first place winner.

​Rex moved across the country with us and tolerated three different dwellings and four cats before arriving at our final destination, our new forever home. Day in, day out, life swirled about us, but this simple creature was our constant--whether we realized it or not.

Life marched on and we welcomed three more children, two of whom tilted the axis of our world with intense surprises at birth. Amidst it all, Rex was our steady.

And let me tell you, when your axis gets tilted, you need a steady.

But the stupid thing was, we didn't understand the value of that furry rock, until one day he couldn't stand up. We were so busy with our human drama (and it was a big one--our newborn baby was in critical condition in a hospital two hours from home for a month) that we didn't notice that our pup was sick until it was too late. We took him to the vet and he never came back.

When Rex died, I cried openly with my young children. Trying to help them process the complexity of their loss, I brought up the recent death of my father. Tony had passed just three months prior, so I tried to draw some parallels within the experiences and the emotions. I remember feeling a bit silly at the time...should I really try to compare the death of a dog to that of a human? But my heart ached so for my pup! It felt valid so I moved forward. I remember my little boy looking up at me a bit disgusted at the comparison. "But, Mom,” he cried, "we didn't even know Tony!”

It was like a slap. My child was unabashedly telling me that his dog was more important than my father to him. I sat stunned for a moment, but soon realized that his six-year-old logic was the only one steeped in reason. It took his raw honesty for me to see the truth: losing this animal that greeted him every morning, that followed him through his days and predictably lay down in the same spot every night was a greater loss than that of the grandfather he saw three or four times a year. It didn't matter that that the love didn't come from a human. In fact, it was the most lucid form of love: love without drama, without judgement, without confusion--just steady, dependable dog-love.

​And now, twelve years and two dogs later, I stand by as my dearest friend has to bury her beloved pup. I want her to know that I understand that ache. Some will not understand, and I pity them, for they don’t know what it feels like to look deep into a dog’s eyes. They have never been fortunate enough to know this simple, uncomplicated love.

We know what that love means--love in its purest form--the love of a dog.

​I did not know then that my dog would follow nine months later. I did not know that my empathy would soon shift into my own suffering.
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So here I am. I breathe deep and wipe my tears and hope someone loves me enough to silently share this grief with me. But then, I sit and take comfort in the truth: I am fortunate enough to know that my grief will not rest with me alone. This weight will be shared.

Fortunate...is that the right word? Is it fortunate to share grief?         It is.

The sharing of this universal journey is one of the things that makes us human, that makes the toil of this existence worthwhile. And I use the word “toil” deliberately. Sometimes life is fucking brutal, and if we can’t share that weight we are done for.

We will all know deep sadness. There is no easy way through grief. She finds us all eventually--even if we hide.  And if you think you’ve outsmarted her, you haven’t. There will come a moment when she unexpectedly taps you on the shoulder and slyly whispers, “Here I am.”

But you will make it through, as will I. This ache is a cosmic one.

​So sit with me and hold my hand and I, my friend, will hold yours.

my beauty.