Grief Recovery Archives - Page 10 of 11 - Sacred Healing of Grief Wounds

Last Walk in the Yard

One week ago today, our thirteen-year-old Brittany, Dubba, took his last walk in the yard. The decision to end the suffering of a beloved pet is hard, very hard. Carrying out that decision is a burden shared by many. This article is in appreciation for Dubba and the love he showed me, once he got to know me.

A Sporting Life

I’m a supporter of rescue dogs and my life before Wayne has included many. In contrast, Dubba was bred to point birds, specifically quail. He was a master of his craft, teaching many young Brittany pups the art of trailing the scent, pinpointing the hidden location, and then standing stock still until released by the bird taking flight.

Once the hunter brought down the bird, Dubba retrieved it carefully with a ‘soft mouth’, responding to the call of his master, my husband, Wayne. I traipsed behind the hunters one cool Spring morning and watched the symphony of man, dog, and quail in a field, dotted with palmetto islands.

Wild quail hunting is a thing of the past, their natural habitat replaced by housing tracts with cement walls and names like, “Quail Trail Preserve”. Now there are quail breeders and quail brokers. Wayne or his friend, Fred, purchase the birds right before the hunt and place them in the field. When I first saw this, I was taken a back. Consequently, I understand and appreciate the joy of our Brittanys when they are on the hunt.

A Man and His Dog

The bond between Wayne and Dubba was deep, born when Dubba was born in the same home Wayne and I now share. I’ve know Dubba four years. At first he was a bit intimidating. Within a few months, he was seeking me out, rubbing his head against my thigh.

Although Wayne had hopes of breeding our puppy, Sugar, with Dubba, that never happened. Dogs have preferences too. Dubba did not care for Sugar. I breathed a sigh of relief. The thought of raising puppies kept me up nights.

Many years ago, Dubba was a house dog, like his sister, Marilyn and Sugar are today. Dubba, however, insisted on marking his territory inside the house. He received his own house in the yard with an elevated, enclosed and covered area, front entrance, and steps down to the cool cement floor of his spacious kennel. Soon after, a lost, injured American Bulldog found Wayne in Georgia on a deer hunting trip. After diligent efforts to find the Bulldog’s owners failed, Wayne named her Daisy, and brought her home to live with Dubba.

Dogs Have Feelings Too

Wayne and I were worried about Daisy’s reaction to the absence of her friend, Dubba. At first, she was very subdued; barking and eating less, sleeping more. We’ve given Daisy extra tummie rubs, more exercise and attention. She is responding well and seems as happy as she was before. Wayne and I feel better too.

Life Moves On

For all of you who experienced your dog’s last walk in the yard, I feel your pain. I also feel your warm memories of sloppy dog kisses, endless games of fetch, and tender moments. Goodbye dear friend, Dubba.

Love,
Dog Mama Dawn

When Fathers Day is Difficult

This post seems late since Father’s Day was earlier on Sunday. Rather, Father’s Day is difficult for me and I waited until after the holiday to write about it. How many holidays that expect certain emotions or actions are difficult for you? There’s a lot to pick from; Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Grandparent’s Day, Thanksgiving, and many more as this Internet List shows.

Memories are sweeter now, afterward

Looking back is easier today, the pain of loss and grief less pungent. Rather, sweet memories pour over me; the smell of his tobacco smoke, the tickle of his beard when he hugged me, the white salt stains on his work shirt from a day farming in the Florida summer heat, his ability to make me laugh. One prank he pulled especially comes to mind. Whenever I came home to Polk County, I liked to visit Bok Tower Gardens. Dad loved it too. My husband and I were talking as we left our car in the parking lot and Dad and Mom were ahead of us. My inner compass followed Dad without thinking.

When I looked up and realized we weren’t where I expected, I said, “Dad, where did you lead us?”

He grinned and lifted one eyebrow while winking the other eye. I knew I’d been duped again. We were a perfect match. He loved to play practical jokes and I never saw them coming.

Keeping his memory alive

Therefore, I return here, to Bok Tower Gardens often, choosing to volunteer both as an interpretive guide during the cooler months and an historic home docent all year. The many people I meet from all over the globe also remind me how much I’m like my father. He never knew a stranger.

May your memories be as sweet and dear to you as mine are to me.

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Closing a Chapter in My Life

The past 10 days, I’ve flown from Florida to Denver, driven 200 miles to my mother’s home with my sister and son, filtered through mountains of paperwork, pulling out the memories my mother saved, tossed 20 tall kitchen garbage bags, filled 30 boxes of things I couldn’t part with, carefully added a few pieces of furniture and ironwork my late father handcrafted, and now I’m driving a 16’ moving truck (with my 37-year-old son as wingman) the 2,400 miles back to the county where I was born and my husband, 90-year-old mother, and dogs are waiting for me.

Visiting a Sacred Place

The last thing we did before my sister flew back to Orlando was to walk up to the clearing among the rocks where Mom and I spread my father’s ashes in 2015. Just last year I could still see remnants in the dry desert soil. Now it seemed the landscape had changed the past twelve months, but I found my intersecting landmarks; a dead piñon pine and the outcropping where my husband and I exchanged our marriage vows exactly three years ago. A sagebrush had doubled in size just outside the small circle rimmed with rocks, placed with love and care. Each of us scooped up a few spoonfuls of sand to take home, placing them in emptied spice containers from the kitchen cabinet. I thought, “The remnants of the spice or herb will add an exotic hint when we open them later.”

Leaving is Hard for Everyone

Neighbors helped us load our belongings in the rented moving truck, handshakes and hugs completed the task. One special friend remained behind, visiting in the living room where she had listened to my Mother’s stories about Florida and the many backpacking and later RV trips she and my Dad had taken over the 65 years they were together. The friend and I held each other tight, soothing our sobs with mutual back rubs. We dried our tears on our sleeves and as I held the screen door, she said, “Text me every morning and night you are on the road. And give Sue a big hug from me!”

One Last Look

With the truck packed, we could have jumped in and started our journey. We were drawn to the high rock behind the house, dubbed La Garita Rock by the locals.

Larry said, “Let’s make one more trip up there, Mom.”

La Garita - Lookout Rock — La Garita – Lookout Rock

I found an old cane to steady myself as I carefully placed my hiking boots amongst the prickly pear and hedgehog cactus with their bright orange-red blossoms opening in the waning light. Working slowly toward the summit, we turned and surveyed the view. The northern section of the San Luis Valley laid out before us, the Great Sand Dunes clearly seen 60 miles to the east at the base of the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Just below us to the left stood the house my parents lived in during their retirement of 30 years. Moving toward the right I saw the historic church just outside the gate to my parent’s property, Capilla San Juan Bautista. The new red metal roof in sharp contrast to the white stucco on the thick adobe walls. Just beyond, the metal gate of the Carnero Creek Cemetery with scores of white crosses within.

The place will pass from the Anderson’s to the next family, but the memories and friends we’ve made will always live in our hearts. I know I’ll return soon…