Cooking a Life: Part 4 from the Farm
AKA: “Sammy.” There are no minor “bit players” in a life. Every one matters. Especially the canine ones!
Regular readers here know that in our home, there are three humans who live under our roof. Those three “main characters” in the Lenseigne melodrama being: Kristin, Dad, and me. But there IS a fourth soul. A “minor character” that has made appearances every now and then, in pictures and words, and still gets unfairly blamed for bouts of flatulence every now and then. And yet, of late, he’s becoming not such a minor character in this dramatic stage play known as Dad’s Journey Home. In fact, he’s enduringly, and increasingly, becoming a greater, and very sweet, character in his own right as the Journey continues into its final act.
In other words, Dad and Sammy are becoming even closer pals.
I highlight this because there is something else going on that is poignantly special. And mysterious. And speaks to the resonance all living beings can share at a soul level—but especially from and with dogs.
Dad is a dog lover and he’s ALWAYS owned dogs (maybe they’ve owned him!). Dog lovers get it, right? If you are a dog lover, you know and appreciate the unique, special, and oftentimes unexplainable bond that can form between a dog and its human(s). There is no doubt dogs are a part of the Universal soul, the Anima Mundi. And there seems to be some kind of predestination that dogs (of the Canis domesticus species at least) and humans were meant to co-exist; were meant to be a part of each other’s pack. Again, if you haven’t had a dog as a part of your family, you won’t understand; so… sorry. If you have, then, I don’t even need to write this. Right? I mean, dog lovers know…
Dogs know dog people. Dogs know if you love dogs.
One of the earliest dogs in our family I can remember, and this was when we lived in Toppenish, was a Weimaraner named Duchess. There was some kind of special bond between Dad and this dog. Duchess was special. Dad LOVED her. I have quite a few early memories of these two together—Dad wasn’t much of a hunter but on the rare occasion when he hunted pheasant, Duchess went with and served him well in the locating and retrieval of game. I remember the old pen Duchess was relegated to and how she would get so excited when Dad entered to feed her or just rough house and play with her a bit. When Duchess was let out of the pen, I don’t think she was ever more than 10 feet from Dad. I remember their inseparable bond.
Duchess has entered, deeply, the family lore. Duchess is the one dog Dad would always remember as “HIS DOG”—all caps intended. So whenever talk turned to Duchess, with Dad, it was always tinted with the warm essence of sentimentality.
Having dogs as part of your family is one thing—a special thing at that. But, having a dog as part of your family while living on a farm is something very different. In the right circumstances, on a farm, there is a greater chance of growing a wider range of spirit in a dog. Well, in a human too but that’s for another time. More places to roam; more freedom to run; more things to explore, and taste, and discover (like skunks and even porcupines!) Yep, trust me, we knew we lived among skunks and porcupines growing up because we also lived with dogs! If you will ever own a farm and dogs, you are hereby warned that dogs, and those two animals in particular, do not a trio make.
But there are dangers on the farm too. Like vehicles. And roads. And one road in particular: Fort road in Toppenish.
I think the first time I ever witnessed Dad truly sad, like distraught sad, was when Duchess died after being hit by a car on Fort road. I remember that period of time clearly—one of the important Eldering teaching moments in a young life. I can’t quite remember if the driver of that car stopped and actually was the one to knock on our door or if mom or dad were the first to discover Duchess’ body off the side of the road. But I remember the sadness that descended upon our home. I remember Dad’s pained expressions. And then Dad’s grief and silence. Even at my own young age, I knew something changed in Dad when Duchess died. I didn’t know then, but do know now: that is what grief did to a human—it made them more human.
Over the years, Dad has had to bury a lot of dogs. That is what you do on a farm. You acquire them, then they acquire you; they find their way into your heart, they quickly become family—they bring great joy. Then, they get older, and slower, and age—and they bring their own wisdom to the shared life of family. Then, they die (sometimes by “natural causes,” sometimes by trauma or accidents, sometimes by human compassionate intervention).
And then, if you live on a farm, you bury them. On the farm.
And there is grief.
In case you didn’t catch it right there, that was another Eldering from Dad, to us, off of the farm. One of the important “cooking a life” ingredients that are grown organically when you live on a farm with animals. If you raise animals, especially pets, you will experience the full circle of life—you attach yourself to any single animal at your own risk. When you invite them in, or rather, when they invite themselves in to your home and heart, they become family. And then they die. And in doing that, they bring with them grief. It’s a packaged deal we learned from the farm: the inseparable bonding of death with life; grief and sadness with joy and happiness.
You do not grieve that which you do not love. Through his lived example of mourning the loss of his dogs, Dad Eldered us. And he kept inviting dogs in to the family, which meant he kept inviting life and death into our family. Because my Dad loved dogs. And that’s what you get with life.
Over the years, Dad’s love for Duchess would be brought up by some family member every now and then. We wouldn’t talk much about it in Dad’s presence, but later on, Dad was never bashful about acknowledging how special that dog was.
As an educator, I always appreciated parents who allowed pets into their family life. And I appreciated them even more if those pets were allowed to live out their fullness by also dying among family. THOSE lessons, for kids, cannot ever be duplicated; those lessons are amazing and vital ways of making humans. And the wisest parents allowed their children to take full part in the life AND death of their pets—shielding them not from the naturalness that is death and mourning and grief. In my experience, though I cannot prove this objectively, kids who grow up with close pets, especially of the canine or feline variety, have a greater capacity, a quicker potential, for compassion and empathy.
Okay, fast forward now to the present day and the reason for today’s post.
It’s about Sammy and Dad.
Something’s going on that is mysterious but also points to the reason many dogs and breeds become service animals in various capacities and roles for humans in our world. Dogs have an intelligence and temperament that sets them up well for a lot of different kinds of training—whether that be dogs in service to those with visual or hearing impairments, emotional therapeutic need, or more astonishingly, those humans who may be prone to seizures.
But dogs also have a capacity for something more mysterious—and it is this subtle quality, this perceptual sense, that is surfacing now in the relationship between Dad and Sammy.
Dogs know.
Sammy knows.
We know this because we’ve seen Sammy “be” different around Dad lately. It didn’t really enter my thinking that having Dad live with us would have any kind of impact, like this, in Sammy. With Kristin and me? Of course. But with Sammy? This was not expected. But it is SO welcomed. And it’s lovely and heart-rending to witness.
Sammy is joining Dad on his lap more often. Sammy will jump up and lay down at times on Dad’s chair when he sees Dad return to it from a walkabout or from the bathroom: Sammy virtually daring: “so YOU think YOU’RE gonna sit here now, do you? Time to pay attention to ME!”—that being a moment of laughter for us all. Sammy, most times now, will accompany Dad on trips to the bathroom or on walks to the gate. Sammy will often help put Dad to bed by escorting him to the bedroom and jumping on the bed until Dad is tucked in and the light is turned off.
Sammy is gentle and calm with Dad. When he accompanies on walks, Sammy’s pace matches my Dad’s and Sammy will often walk one stride just behind Dad even when we are walking from one place to another in the house.
If Sammy gets ahead, he will stop and turn to see if Dad is still walking. Sammy will watch from the top as Dad ascends the stairs for a meal;
and will stand at the landing when Dad descends to return to his chair.
All this is very touching. It’s a form of love that is playing out, in real time, in front of us. Sammy is taking care of, watching over, and protecting an ailing member of his pack. Because Sammy understands, I think, what is happening.
And is about to happen.
Dad and Sammy are kindred spirits now. How’s THIS for synchronicity: if the old wives’ tale rang true, that dogs age 7 years for every 1 of humans’, then both Dad and Sammy turned 84 years old this summer.
Sammy would be quick to say: “Yeah, but at least I can still run!”
Autumn’s just arrived. And it’s definitely true Dad is further into the Autmnn of his own life now—further along the path on his Journey Home. We’ve seen changes in Dad. And we’ve seen changes in Sammy because Dad is here with us now.
Because dogs know.
Sammy knows.
If you live, or have ever lived, among dogs, you knew ALL this anyway.
That’s just a way of proving you‘ve been properly Eldered…
…by a dog.
T plus 89 days…and counting. And now Sammy is counting with us; and keeping step.
Yes I totally agree that dogs know. I am not sure how, they just do. Keep a close eye on Gpa Sammy, good boy.
Dogs (and Dad’s) are the best!