A quiet July Sunday

Dragon Mood? -- reflective

Sunday morning used to be a busy time for me: playing the organ at church or hurrying children along to go to church or warming up my voice with the choir before worship services. Ahh, that all feels rather long ago. Now my Sunday mornings are much, much quieter. And that actually feels good to me. Rather than so much busy-ness, I feel some quiet in my heart. If God decided to talk to me, there might be a snowball's chance in hell of my hearing God!

This has been a rather slow, reflective week for me. Sad in some ways. I am still grieving Cisco's death. I see her coming around the corner or waiting for me at the door. Before, I couldn't get up from my seat without her jumping up as well to shepherd me to my destination. Now, traversing the house, I move unimpeded, a strange unwelcome reminder.

My search for a job this past week was half-hearted, at best. I felt like I was moving in slo-o-ow motion. Thinking back, the only thing that really impacted me was watching Republican senators try to penetrate Sonia Sotomayor's imperturbable calm. More than once, I felt like yelling at the TV screen.

S worked tremendously long hours this past week. She has a not-to-be-missed deadline coming up. I spent one or two evenings on Jan & Tom's porch with them, drinking red wine, visiting, laughing and simply enjoying being in the company of people. They are such good neighbors and friends!

S's mother, Sally, is here with us this weekend. Last night, we had an awesome bonfire in our rolling firepit out on the driveway. Sally and I fed the fire while S did some woodworking in the garage. I gave it up around midnight, but those two intrepid night owls stayed out there until after 3 a.m.! Amazing!

I hope this next week is better for me. More productive. Happier. That's my hope.

Remembering Cisco

Dragon Mood? -- sad and grieving

Friday, we lost a member of our family. Cisco, our 12-year-old dog died here at home after several months of deteriorating health.

Cisco knew long before we did. She quit thriving. Her appetite took a nose-dive and she began to lose weight. I took her to the vet a couple of times. We gave her several rounds of antibiotics. The vet instructed us to jazz up her food. Her weight loss was too much, too fast. I started feeding her pricey human food simply to entice her to eat. All the while, Cisco waited, waiting for S and I to catch on to what was going on.

She seemed to know that it was her time, that she was dying and that it was time to follow her instincts. She quit eating, sleeping more, lying still for hours at a time. Her hind quarters got very wobbly. She became weak. Offered chicken or beef, she would turn her nose away.



All last week we were on something of a death watch. When a creature simply stops eating, it's only a matter of time. We decided that as long as she appeared to not be in pain, we would keep her at home, trying to allow her to die in familiar surroundings with her people there beside her.

Last Friday morning, she seemed weak but still like herself. I watched her or checked on her regularly. When she lost control of her bowels, I moved her outside. I laid her on a rag rug in the cool shade and sat beside her, stroking her body, talking to her. I told her that she was a good dog. I told her that I loved all the walks we had taken. I told her that it was okay. I talked to her like a baby needing comfort. I didn't want her to be afraid. Her body seemed too still; only her eyes and twitching eyebrows still seemed like her.



Her breathing grew quieter. After about 30 minutes, she suddenly stiffened her legs, straightened her spine, arched her tail and her eyes went vacant. She was gone.

I cried. After our neighbor came over to help me move her body, I bawled like a baby. I knew that this was coming, we wanted her to have as calm and peaceful a death as possible, but it still hit me hard. Our good ol' girl was gone.

S and I drove her body to the vet's office. We arranged for her to be cremated. We drove home, ate a little something and then slept. Everything felt too quiet, things didn't feel right, someone was missing.

How we are missing Cisco is surprising us. It catches each of us in unexpected, sad-all-over-again ways. Our feelings reverberate like being inside of some bell ringing loudly with grief. It catches me by surprise every time. Talking about her makes me want to cry all over again. I try to tell myself, "... but she's just a dog."

No, she was our dog, a part of our family and we're really missing her.