On Death and Pillars --Lee

July 6

I have always been close to my father, who grew up among the ranchers of rural South Dakota. In fact, his brother, Leet, and my cousin, Ty, still ranch. They are real life, Stetson-wearing, truck-drivin’ cowboys. I think they’re pretty cool even if raising cattle for the slaughterhouse requires them to maintain a certain emotional distance from four-legged creatures, most especially cows.

That familial ranching connection must have resulted in the mistaken notion that someday, I too, would be able to approach the eventual death of our own four-legged critter, Baby, with calmness and detachment. After all, I am genetically related to cowboys. In that world, critters die each year and ranchers, well they just deal with it. Apparently, they haul truckloads of cattle to the stockyards during a particular season each year, with no more thought than I give to the purchase of Coppertone in June. And, well, that’s the cloth I’m cut from, genealogically speaking.

So when Baby became really ill recently, I had already conjured up images of myself as the whole family’s Pillar of Strength. Ego has a way of dismissing those small, distinguishing details like, herds of cattle live in pastures and pets sleep next to your bed. My vision was clear. Everyone would fall apart but ‘The Rock,’ (that would be me, by the way) Baby was, after all, just a four-legged critter. Never-mind the fact that we had rescued her when Kara, who is now heading for college in August, was in third grade. And never mind the endearing peculiarities like the way that Baby had taken it upon herself to join us on Friday nights for bruchas. She whined her request for a piece of that fresh-baked challah like it was a prayer.

I have to admit that I don’t remember ever seeing a cuter little flop-eared Jack Russell Terrier. Yup, just a cute, but rather dumb dog, with no more sense than to try to mix it up with other four-legged creatures, some of whom were far larger and stronger than she. And it was a good thing for that bison in Yellowstone that Baby was restrained behind the window of our vehicle. Lucky bison. I often say, with looks like hers, who needs brains? Dumb-assed dog.

*** *** ***

It’s my first morning in Israel. At 7 a.m., it’s already hot and muggy. I actually slept on the plane ride here, but I think I may now have an Ambien hangover. Warren and I are out for a stroll on the Tel Aviv boardwalk. As is my habit, I call to check in with my husband, Danny. It’s nighttime in San Diego. It’s Friday night, the start of Shabbat. He’s probably having a rough time of it, at home alone and a sick dog to deal with.

“I had to put Baby down yesterday afternoon,” he says gently into the phone. “I didn’t want to wake you in the middle of the night.” He and I had already discussed end-of-life issues, our own and the dog’s. We had agreed that letting her suffer was not an option, nor was spending thousands of dollars unnecessarily prolonging her life. She was, I had reminded myself, only a dog. Emotional distance? Ready, check.

“I held her the whole time,” he continues bravely. “In a few weeks, we’ll get her ashes from the vet. You and Kara and I will spread them somewhere special.” I am listening and looking out onto the calm of the Mediterranean Sea where I will spend my first Shabbat on this trip to Israel. Imagine my surprise as I begin to sob. I am blubbering something about “loving her” and I can barely mouth my disbelief that her cute, puppy-like face will no longer be a part of our lives. Tears are streaming down my cheeks and I don’t cry pretty like they do in the movies. I am noticing about myself, an unusual lack of self-consciousness regarding the concerned looks of passers-by.

With the weight of my heart, I am leaning into the phone, I lean into the comforting pillar of Danny’s words. “I know,” he whispers, “I loved her, too.”