Tomorrow Morning
The older I get the more patterns I see, and the more pain I understand. I see so much pain in the world and I can understand why someone under duress may act like a complete asshole. It is a hell of a lot safer to lash out and tear down than it is to expose your own soft, gooey, underbelly and trust that someone else won't rip open your gut as a result of their own pain. The sad trick is, sometimes you have to feel your heart breaking to wake up stronger the next day.
Before my dog, Bukka, died, he was in a lot of pain. We had no way of knowing this because he didn't really let on. He still ran hard core every day, still ate his food, still enjoyed playing catch, but there was something sad about him. He'd look at you like his world was crumbling around him. I thought it might have had something to do with our move and the loss of his back yard. Although he wasn't any more or less ill tempered than he had ever been I had this nagging feeling that he was contemplating biting us repeatedly while we slept. Our trainer was sure he was stressed and, to be sure, he always felt better when Tyril was around. Man, Bukka loved that guy. I was begining to fear Bukka. I was guiltily looking around for another home for him. Someplace in the country where he could hunt birds. It killed me to know that I could never explain it to him that we weren't abandonning him, but were trying to find a place that better suited him. Three people and a big dog in a small Brooklyn apartment...it just didn't seem fair.
On the day Bukka died he had been running and playing catch with Tom at the dog run. He had this funny way of playing hide and seek around the big trees there. As he was running his hind leg just popped right out at a 90 degree angle. The more Tom tried to help, the more resistance he gave. It took Tom 2 hours to get Bukka out of the dog run and to the vet. He put up a hell of a fight. Through a sedative haze that would have killed an elephant he lashed out, growling, barking and snapping. That stubborn son of a bitch wanted things his way- with a morphine drip please.
After it was all over and we realized the extent of his illness we then understood the pain he must have been in. We also realized that we had not imagined those angry doggie thoughts. He probably was considering lashing out at us for weeks, but for some reason exercised restraint until the pain and the fear became too much. Then he had no choice but to react.
Right now, my heart is breaking but I know my only way past it is through it. The pain will not go away because I am losing and there is no escape from this loss. This is a part of the pattern of pain that is particular to my life. The perception of this loss is uniquely mine, but the loss itself is not just confined to me. Through these events I am begining to see others more clearly and see the pain they have been hiding behind anger and a flurry of accusations and seemingly cold decisions. It is at this moment I could decide to become bitter, angry and resentful. I could place blame and try to spread my hurt around. Or I could feel it and believe in my ability to pass through it and learn from it. I could trust in my strength. What other purpose could this pain serve? If there is no cosmic point to this pain, then where is the harm in my fashioning one? It isn't being right that is so important. It is getting up in the morning that matters.
Before my dog, Bukka, died, he was in a lot of pain. We had no way of knowing this because he didn't really let on. He still ran hard core every day, still ate his food, still enjoyed playing catch, but there was something sad about him. He'd look at you like his world was crumbling around him. I thought it might have had something to do with our move and the loss of his back yard. Although he wasn't any more or less ill tempered than he had ever been I had this nagging feeling that he was contemplating biting us repeatedly while we slept. Our trainer was sure he was stressed and, to be sure, he always felt better when Tyril was around. Man, Bukka loved that guy. I was begining to fear Bukka. I was guiltily looking around for another home for him. Someplace in the country where he could hunt birds. It killed me to know that I could never explain it to him that we weren't abandonning him, but were trying to find a place that better suited him. Three people and a big dog in a small Brooklyn apartment...it just didn't seem fair.
On the day Bukka died he had been running and playing catch with Tom at the dog run. He had this funny way of playing hide and seek around the big trees there. As he was running his hind leg just popped right out at a 90 degree angle. The more Tom tried to help, the more resistance he gave. It took Tom 2 hours to get Bukka out of the dog run and to the vet. He put up a hell of a fight. Through a sedative haze that would have killed an elephant he lashed out, growling, barking and snapping. That stubborn son of a bitch wanted things his way- with a morphine drip please.
After it was all over and we realized the extent of his illness we then understood the pain he must have been in. We also realized that we had not imagined those angry doggie thoughts. He probably was considering lashing out at us for weeks, but for some reason exercised restraint until the pain and the fear became too much. Then he had no choice but to react.
Right now, my heart is breaking but I know my only way past it is through it. The pain will not go away because I am losing and there is no escape from this loss. This is a part of the pattern of pain that is particular to my life. The perception of this loss is uniquely mine, but the loss itself is not just confined to me. Through these events I am begining to see others more clearly and see the pain they have been hiding behind anger and a flurry of accusations and seemingly cold decisions. It is at this moment I could decide to become bitter, angry and resentful. I could place blame and try to spread my hurt around. Or I could feel it and believe in my ability to pass through it and learn from it. I could trust in my strength. What other purpose could this pain serve? If there is no cosmic point to this pain, then where is the harm in my fashioning one? It isn't being right that is so important. It is getting up in the morning that matters.
posted by Bree O'Connor at 2:57 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home