My six-year-old daughter, Opal, wants nothing more than to go to the Humane Society to visit the dogs that “need the most love.” So we head straight out of a half-day at school to do just that, eating almond butter and jelly sandwiches on the way.
The entrance to the Boulder Valley Humane Society smells of wood chips. By the front door is a stack of hamster cages arranged like planned impulse buys like Chapstick and mints at Target.
“Can I help you?” The nice lady behind the counter says that the mouth has more gums than teeth. I tell her we’d like to visit a dog or two that especially need some love.
“Hmmm,” she says thoughtfully with a closed smile. “Yeah, Leo could come visit. He’s big, is that okay?”
We have an 85 pound lab at home. I assure her that we are used to Big.
We find Leo sleeping on a bed in a very large box with a bone-shaped inscription “Sweet Pie”. He is a five-year-old pit bull with a face the width of a loaf of bread and fur the shade of sand. We return to the entrance hall, where we wait for an employee to take him out.
As we walk the halls, I notice that many, but not all, of the dogs have the same bone-shaped tags hanging from their cages, but with wildly different descriptions: “Playful!” “Timid”. It occurred to me that those without signs should not be so bright in their stated characteristics. In my mind, I imagine throwing a New Year’s Eve party where every guest has to wear a small badge around their neck that proclaims one of their great qualities: A people pleaser. The observer. A perfectionist.
Leo bursts through the revolving door, dragging an employee on a pink leash. This must be a sign of things to come, but I grab the leash anyway and head out the front door. The gait of this dog essentially resembles the gait of a midfielder moving in the opposite direction. I try desperately to stay on my feet as he drags me down the muddy slope and we leave Opal behind screaming MOM!
Giving love to this dog is not an easy task. So we start heading back to the building we came from.
As we walked, I noticed that the tops of both of Leo’s ears were missing fur, and there were chalky mushroom-like lumps on his skin where fur should grow. The same on the back of the legs. On its short coat, where no hair grows, there are pin stripes, much finer than the scars caused by the mouth or claws of other animals.
Opal says, “Why does he look like that?”
I tell her it looks like he was in a fight with another dog. Fairly harmless – animals fight. I’m not saying it seems like he probably was aerial combat. It is likely that he was rescued from a difficult situation with an abusive owner or an owner who condoned violence. This is the kind of scenario that gives pit bulls a bad name. He’s awful on a leash—both of my hands are red and burned from the twitching—but he doesn’t seem to have any fear of or aggression toward people. It’s a miracle for me.
Back, we see a man playing with a pit bull puppy, who smiles and laughs as the puppy climbs onto his lap and then falls over the side. I can see what Opal wants what experience, so we give Leo one last head scratch and then ask to trade him for a puppy.
Discomfort, twisting, coming back to presence
We take one of the seven pit bull puppies out into the fenced area. The fresh air and puppy energy are a relief. It is as small as a soccer ball and is solid black except for its belly and the tips of its paws, which are pure white. Watching him stagger and shuffle from point A to point B is pure comedy. Opal is beside herself with delight.
Then she asks the inevitable question, “Can we take him home?”
I tell her no. A puppy is too much work. They poop and chew everything. But we can come to him next week.
“What if he’s gone?”
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 her in the rearview mirror staring out the window a million miles away.
I tell her that when he left it meant he was adopted by a good family. These puppies will likely be adopted very soon.
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 her in the rearview mirror staring out the window a million miles away.
At home, when we’re sitting on the couch, Opal drapes her body over my lap. Our huge laboratory is snoring at my feet. Opal blows her nose and periodically wipes her nose with her sleeve. I stroke her hair.
She says, “What if no one wants to adopt Leo?” There are plump tears in the corners of her eyes.
I tell Opal that maybe we shouldn’t go back to the Humane Society if it’s just going to break her heart. But this only upsets her more, and I quickly realize that these words go against everything we’ve taught her.
We, the Grimes family, spent most of the year in foster care. And we often talk about how we should never shy away great emotionsespecially if they are the result of helping others. But it is such a habit of either straining or shrinking in the face of misfortune and wanting to protect others from the pain of being human.
“Honey, the Humane Society will find a good home for Leo. And for the little puppy and all his siblings.”
“But what if the person who adopts them means?”
I know there are no shortcuts to getting to the other side of grief other than going through this.
“Oh dear,” I say. I am constantly conflicted about how much truth to share with her about this crazy, uncertain, often terrifying, but also beautiful and wonderful world. I vacillate back and forth between feeling like I’m saying too much and not knowing what else to say.
Therefore, I return to the simple paying attention– to my own thoughts, my own discomfort, my own shallow breathing, my own desire to talk about happier things – because I know that there are no shortcuts to get to the other side of sadness, except to go through this.
I ask, “Can you take a deep breath with me?”
“Uh-uh.” She is looking at me now as we are inhale and exhale. First sharp, partial breaths, then calm and deep.
“Hey, it’s okay to feel sad, sweetie. The thing is, there’s a lot of sadness in the world. We just keep doing the best we can. And you did a good thing today, giving love the way you did.”
At this point, she stands up, picks herself up, and flashes me a small but sincere smile as she goes about her day.
Awareness: It’s okay to feel your own sadness
In two days, we are leaving for a trip to visit our beloved adopted child who is almost a year old and who returned to his parents three weeks early. We will call this baby Blue.
I am very happy to see that she looks happy and healthy, very connected to her mother. She has a charming room with blankets on the walls, lots of toys and books. Their pit bull strangely resembles a humane society humane, albeit more calm and civilized.
I didn’t realize it, but many of my feelings of loss were mixed in with the hustle and bustle of holidays and travel. The grief immediately present when I look at her face and hear her speak OpalOpalOpal.
All good news. And yet, despite the fact that we will likely see her again, it feels like this visit is a farewell. The little blue eyes came home a few days before Christmas and I didn’t realize it, but many of my feelings of loss were mixed in with the hustle and bustle of the holidays and travel. The grief is immediately present as I stop to look at her face and hear her speak OpalOpalOpal.
Sadness first feels like tiredness, then grumpy over-sensitivity at dinner. Then, later, after Opal is asleep, a flood of tears comes, like a valve has burst behind my eyes. I can’t stop it even though it’s my first inclination is to do just that. My mindful self tells me that crying is a natural and healthy response and that I can relax with my sadness. But my body – bones and muscles – wants to make the discomfort disappear. I am aware of all this.
I make my way into our bedroom where Jesse is watching TV. He sees my face and says, “Little blue eyes?”
I think about how overwhelming these emotions are for me, a “big strong adult,” and I can only imagine the equally overwhelming emotions my daughter, who has been on the planet for only six years and with far less experience seeing her feelings through the other side, must feel. We have to show her that emotions are fluid, constantly changing.
I nod and lie down next to me. I rested my head on his chest like Opal had done to me a few days ago. His heart is in my ear like a distant drum against my changing breathing. I think about how powerful these emotions are for me, a “big strong adult”, and I can only imagine how equally huge emotions must be felt by my daughter, who has been on the planet for only six years and with much less experience of seeing her feelings through the other side. We have to show her that emotions are fluid, constantly changing.
“It’s okay to be sad,” Jesse tells me. “I’m sad too.”
Those are the same words I said to Opal when we were on the couch, the same sympathetic tone. I sit up and stretch my arms high and out to the sides, the sound of the internal movement like a soft rumble deep in my ear canals. Some life is coming back into my bones.
These words, “It’s okay to be sad,” open a window into the tiny, claustrophobic room of emotions I find myself squatting in. And it’s not so stuffy anymore. This is what happens when I remember not to try to manipulate, hide, or fight my grief. I can let it roam more freely until, naturally and eventually, it just dissolves on the back of an unsuspecting exhale.
