My six-year-old daughter, Opal, loves nothing more than to go to the Humane Society and meet the dogs who “need the most love.” So we set out after half a day of school to do the same thing, eating almond butter and jelly sandwiches on the way.
The entrance to the Boulder Valley Humane Society smells like wood chips. Near the front door is a stack of hamster cages, placed like intended impulse purchases like chapstick and breath mints at Target.
“May I help You?” The cheerful lady behind the counter tells us with her mouth that there are more gums than teeth. I told her we would like to meet one or two dogs who especially needed love.
“Hmmmm,” she says thoughtfully, with a closed-mouthed smile. “Yeah, Leo could use a trip. He’s big, right?”
We have an 85 pound lab at home. I reassure him that we are used to Big.
We find Leo sleeping on a bed in a very large crate with a bone-shaped symbol marked “Sweetie Pie”. He’s a five-year-old pitbull with a face as wide as a loaf of bread and hair as thick as sand. We return to the front room where we wait for a staff person to bring him out.
As we walked through the hall I noticed, many – but not all – of the dog cages had the same bone-shaped signs hanging from them, but all with different descriptions: “Playful!” “Coward.” It occurs to me that people who don’t have symptoms may not be that advanced in their nameable qualities. In my mind I imagine hosting a party in the New Year where I would have each guest wear a small sign around their neck that states one of their key qualities: people pleaser. Observer. perfectionist.
Leo walks out the swinging doors and pulls a staff member behind him on a pink leash. This should be a sign of what we’re about to do, but I grab the leash anyway and head out the front door. Walking this dog is essentially like walking a linebacker who is going in the opposite direction. I desperately try to keep my feet as he pulls me down the muddy slope and we leave the screaming Opel behind. Mother!
Giving love to this dog is proving to be a difficult task. So we start heading back towards the building we came from.
As we walk, I notice that Leo is missing hair from the tops of both his ears and has chocolate mushroom-shaped bumps on his skin where hair should have grown. The same is true on the backs of his legs. There are pin marks in his short fur where hair does not grow, much more subtle than marks that might have come from the mouth or claws of other animals.
Opal says, “Why does he look like that?”
I told him it looked like he had a fight with another dog. Harmless enough—animals fight. I don’t say it looks like he probably got in dogfights. Presumably he was rescued from a difficult situation with either an abusive owner or an owner who accepted violence. The kind of scenario that gives pitbulls a bad name. He’s terrible on the leash – both of my hands turned red and burned from the shaking – but he doesn’t seem to have any fear or aggression towards people. This is a surprise for me.
Upon returning, we noticed a man playing with a pitbull puppy, smiling and laughing as the puppy climbs into his lap and then falls to the side. i can see what opal wants He Experience, so we give Leo one last head scratch and then ask him to trade it for a puppy.
Restlessness, restlessness gone, return to presence
We take one of the seven pitbull puppies outside to a fenced area. The fresh air and puppy-energy feel like a relief. He is as small as a football and is sleek-black except for his belly and the tips of his paws, which are pure white. Watching him stumble and stumble from point A to point B is pure comedy. Opal is delighted with happiness.
Then she asks the inevitable question: “Can we take him home?”
I tell him no. A puppy is a lot of work. They gnaw and chew everything. But we can come to meet them next week.
“What if he’s gone by then?”
Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is playing on the radio-take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see him looking out the window a million miles in the rear view mirror.
I tell him that if he goes, it will mean that a good family has adopted him. These puppies will likely be adopted very quickly.
Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is playing on the radio-take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see him looking out the window a million miles in the rear view mirror.
At home, Opal wraps her body around my lap when we sit on the couch. Our huge lab is snoring at my feet. Opal is sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve from time to time. I caress her hair.
She says, “What if no one wants to adopt Leo?” Thick, small tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.
I tell Opal that maybe we shouldn’t return to the Humane Society if it will break her heart. But this makes her even more upset and I quickly realize that these words are contrary to everything we are teaching her.
We—the Grimes family—spent the better part of a year as a foster family. And we often talk about how we never need to hold back from big feelings, especially when they come as a result of helping others. But it is a habit to become either stressed or scared in the face of suffering, and want to save others from the pain of being human.
“Honey, the Humane Society will find Leo a good home. And for the little puppy and all his brothers and sisters.”
“But what if the person adopting them is a man Meaning?”
I know there’s no shortcut to grief other than walking to the other side Through it.
“Oh dear,” I say. I’m constantly torn about how much truth to share with her about this crazy, uncertain, often-terrifying-but-beautiful-and-wondrous world. I swing back and forth between feeling like I’m saying too much and not knowing what else to say.
so i come back easily paying attention-For my own thoughts, for my own restlessness, for my own shallow breaths, for my own desire to talk about happy things – because I know there is no shortcut to sadness except getting to the other side. Through it.
I ask, “Can you take a deep breath with me?”
“Aah.” she’s looking at me now like us inhale and exhale. First intermittent, partial breaths, then calm and deep.
“Hey, it’s okay to feel sad, darling. The fact is that there’s a lot of sadness in the world. We just keep doing what we can. And you did good today, giving love like you have.”
In that moment, she stands up, collects herself, and gives me a small but genuine smile as she moves on with her day.
Feeling: It’s okay to feel your sadness
Two days later, we take a trip to meet our sweet foster child, almost a year old, who returned to live with her parents three weeks ago. We will call this girl Little Blue Eyes.
I am very happy to see that she looks happy and healthy, very attached to her mother. She has an adorable room with quilts on the walls, lots of toys and books. Their pitbull strangely resembles human society, although he is exponentially more calm and civilized.
I didn’t realize it, but many of my feelings of loss were drowned out by the hustle and bustle of vacations and travel. When I set my eyes on her face and listen to her words, sadness is immediately present opalopalopal.
All good news. And yet, despite the fact that we’ll likely see him again, it feels like this trip is a goodbye. Little Blue Eyes moved home a few days before Christmas and I didn’t realize it, but many of my feelings of loss were washed away with the noise of the holidays and travel. When I set my eyes on her face and listen to her words, sadness is immediately present opalopalopal.
Grief first feels like tiredness, then like angry over-sensitivity during dinner. Then, later, after Opal has fallen asleep, there comes a torrent of tears as if a valve had burst behind my eyes. I can’t stop it, even though it’s my first Leaning That’s all to do. My wisdom is telling me that crying is a natural and healthy response, and I can be at peace with my grief. But my body—bones and muscles—want it remove discomfort. I am aware of all these things.
I go into our bedroom where Jessie is watching TV. He looks at my face and says, “Small blue eyes?”
I think about how intense these emotions feel to me, as a “big strong adult,” and I can only imagine how those same huge emotions feel to my daughter, who has only been on this planet for six years and has very little experience seeing the other side of her emotions. It’s up to us to show him that emotions are fluid, always in flux.
I nodded and lay down next to her. I laid my head on her chest, just like Opal had done to me a few days ago. Her heart sounds in my ears like a distant drum against my changing breaths. I think about how intense these emotions feel to me, as a “big strong adult,” and I can only imagine how those same huge emotions feel to my daughter, who has only been on this planet for six years and has very little experience seeing the other side of her emotions. It’s up to us to show him that emotions are fluid, always in flux.
“It’s okay to feel sad,” Jessie tells me. “I’m feeling sad too.”
These are the same words I said to Opal when we were on the couch, the same kind tone. I sit up and stretch my arms up and out to the sides, the sound of the inner turmoil echoing in the depths of my ears like a soft purr. Some life enters my bones again.
These words, “It’s okay to feel sad,” open a window into the small, closed room of emotion I’m sitting in. And it’s not so stifling anymore. This happens when I am careful not to try to manipulate, hide, or struggle with my grief. I can let it roam more freely, until, naturally and eventually, it mingles with the breath without thinking.
