Dekker’s Last Day

Dekker’s last day began much like any other day, except that nothing about it was ordinary.

I had slept all of four and a half hours and my son would be stopping by to help me get Dekker into the car. I ate granola for breakfast.

What else was there to say or do?

Part of me was already looking ahead to what would need to be done when I got home. There was work waiting- writing, appointments, the ordinary demands of life.

And I thought perhaps that was a good thing.

No time to sit and dwell.

Except somewhere deep down, there were feelings.

I invited them to show me their faces.

Sorrow and regret were camped in my mind, sharing space with joyful memories.

Vibrations of grief

But somewhere deeper, in the sinews of my soul, were vibrations of grief that did not seem ready to come out.

I decided not to force them. Let them have their space if they needed to hide.

Let me become a guest house for them all.

Let me unlock the doors behind which they lurked, certain that they were not welcome, that they were a problem, that they did not even belong to me.

That may sound simple, but for me it is not.

I have spent much of my life being very good at keeping difficult emotions tucked away while I got on with whatever needed doing.

Sunshine was allowed into the common area. Storms, droughts, lament and sorrow were more likely to remain behind closed doors.

It can make for a peaceful life. And a lonely one.

So on that last morning with Dekker, I found myself asking something different of myself.

Learning from pain

Please, world, do not let anyone fix this.

Any healing that comes must come from somewhere deeper. From Mystery. From acceptance and grace. From forgiveness.

In the many ways Dekker forgave me, perhaps I can take that love and let it heal some of my own wounds.

He forgave missed cues and impatience. He forgave the times I misunderstood what he needed. He forgave me for being human.

Perhaps I can learn to do the same. It is not too late.

But I am going to have to stop being so busy if I am to hear the voices of lament and the song of sorrow.

I am going to have to let the tears that have been hidden know that it is okay.

That they have an invitation without judgment, without direction, without expectations, without rules.

Moving on…alone

And then came the first morning without Dekker.

I woke a little earlier than usual. It was still dark outside, with a soft rain falling.

I had never thought much about weather conditions in the heart, but why not?

Certainly there have been storms. Periods beginning with lightning flashes of insight and rumbles of confusion. Times when I have felt awash with joy and grief at the same time.

That morning was one of those.

I always woke before Dekker.

He would remain in deep sleep across the landscape of my queen-size bed while I showered and got ready for the day.

Before long I would take him outside for his before-breakfast inspection of the domain beyond the hostas.

He knew every creature, human, beast or fowl, that had crossed the border of our lawn and left behind scented identification.

It was as if he welcomed the life around us with every wag of his tail.

Then he would come back inside and finish his nighttime slumber at my feet while I continued what I call my AM routine at my desk.

That morning there was no such foray into the world beyond my room.

Merton, his ever-present feline buddy, stared at me with questions in his eyes.

What do you tell a cat who has spent years curled next to a dog who is suddenly no longer there?

Merton has always seemed a little confused about his own identity anyway. I have often wondered if he thinks he, too, is canine. Just smaller. And a bit weirder.

Perhaps he is.

Or was.

Waking without Dekker felt like being transported into a different universe, one where I would need to learn the language and the culture.

Gone from my sight, but not my heart

There was a different ethos to it. I had never really appreciated the energy field of Dekker.

Some indefinable force kept his tail moving, his eyes sparkling and his heart delivering confidence, wisdom and love when he seemed to be doing little more than standing by my side.

Now that he is gone, I have a new definition of stillness.

A quiet that exceeds the simple absence of noise.

No woofs.

No clacking of nails against the hardwood floor.

No thud as he drops beside my chair.

Just, permeating my universe, an emptiness for which I have no words.

A new challenge

My challenge now is to listen.

But what is this way of listening?

There are no responses. No answers to questions. No explanations to offer.

And the irony is not lost on me that I am sitting here at a keyboard asking words to explain what I cannot understand.

Why do I have such a hard time with Mystery?

All my life I have studied, read, attended classes, seminars, lectures and retreats, all in an effort to understand something. To learn more. To grow in knowledge.

To solve the mystery.

But perhaps there is one Mystery in life that is not meant to be solved.

Living with Mystery

Perhaps it is meant to be lived.

Dekker may have been teaching me that all along.

For nearly nine years, he taught me practical things about courage and trust and dependence.

He helped me move through the world with greater confidence.

He picked things up, steadied me, waited beside me and somehow seemed to know exactly when I needed him.

But perhaps his final lesson while he was here beside me was this:

There are some things we cannot control, fix or solve.

We can only enter them.

We can only allow sorrow and gratitude and regret and love to share the same room.

We can only stop trying to manage every feeling and begin, slowly, to feel fully human.

I am so sorry he had to leave for me to be fully human.

And yet, here I am.

Listening.

Learning.

Making room.

Dekker’s life here may be over, but I suspect his legacy will last forever. A “Four Legged Legacy”.

What would you like to hear about Dekker’s Legacy Story?