An Adoration for Annie

AN ADORATION FOR ANNIE

Our morning routine:

I put the kettle on to boil for my americano.
I put fresh water into one of your bowls, a scoop of canned pumpkin into the other.
Making my way to fetch you, and welcome your joy into my heart,
I first glance out the front window for a moment’s glimpse into a new day.
I walk downstairs, say good morning, and pour a cup of kibble on top of the mound of pumpkin. Lean over to fetch you from your kennel. Maybe I get lucky with a quick sniff and kiss.
You shoot up the stairs, skewed carpet in your wake, and wait impatiently at the back door, howling for me to hurry. Maybe you make a side stop to take your own quick glance through the window to see if any rabbits are worth your first bark of the day.

Finally at your demanded destination, I laugh out loud because no sooner outside, after catching a sniff of the still dark morning air, you pivot, bound back, jump to be let in, the urgency to void suddenly displaced by the urge to eat.
Your exuberance for the new day continues, as racing down the hardwood hall,
you skid into the kitchen, and launch into breakfast. That scarfed down,
you tap dance across the floor, and head cocked alert in anticipation of the next course, a couple of chopped carrots chunks.

My turn. Maybe.
I scoop coffee into the stove-top espresso pot, section a grapefruit, get cream
into my mug before you signal the need to go out again. That done, another sequence of your morning routine, followed by another couple of carrot chunks, finally my coffee steaming and poured, and I sit down at the table to glance at my phone and the morning paper. You take your place in the hallway,
looking into the kitchen intently at me. Then it comes…

…your barely audible “grrrr.”

Satisfied that I’ve raised my head in acknowledgement, you take your leave
and settle onto “your” sofa to begin one of your many morning naps,
expecting my company. Later you’ll move upstairs to get comfy on a bed,
whichever is the best for basking between pillows in sun. Yes, we’ve created a Goldilocks, allowing you to jump up at your whim onto sofa or bed.
You, the first since our first so many decades ago.
We, with the weakened resolve of aging. I wax nostalgic…

But back to today…

The morning sun is shining exceptionally bright. Yesterday I remarked
at its growing warmth, its being higher in the sky, its promise of seasons to come, though mindful we have many more weeks of winter cold.
You return to the kitchen and nudge me to follow you, to sit with you on the sofa. With my full mug, I wait for you to choose your side, and then settle in beside you.
We look into each other’s eyes, I lean over to kiss your head, and then stroking your haunch stretched out beside me, I tell you the story of your coming to us, prefaced by saying,
“You’re one of the best things to have ever come into my life.”

Though not initially…

Too soon that weekend in August when we claimed you as ours. 
Too soon after your predecessor, Lady, passed, she holding on until my return from three months’ travelling solo. Once home, my heart broken by grief. For her. For a career I loved “abolished” in a corporate reorg. For myself, shaken to the core by culture shock.

Then the call from our friend: if we wanted you, we had to come that weekend as he needed to quickly unload his kennel of dogs to tend to his dying wife.

We’d make a vacation out of it.
Tour the southern foothills. Visit a national park. View the mountains.
Dine at that local café off the beaten track, known for bringing in first class musicians in between their main touring gigs.

When I first saw you, then a year-old clumsy pup, the largest of your breed we’d ever had, I was struck by your gentle nature, your soft mouth. I was dismayed though that at a year old, living in the kennel, you weren’t yet house broken. Once home, after several inevitable messes, I wondered if you’d ever learn. Now I laugh and regularly swallow slices of humble pie with healthy sides of crow.

That was twelve years ago, making you now nearly thirteen.

These days, as I take in my own aging reflection, I see age advance in your white face, clouds in your dark eyes. I see you gingerly lick and occasionally chew on your front legs.
Watch you size up the height of the bed before jumping. Take the morning stairs slowly, sometimes tripping. Arthritis most likely the culprit, given you’re a sporting dog with an instinct honed to run for miles across the prairie an hour or so at a stretch, on the wind of bird scent. Walking now, we seldom manage ten thousand steps, and nothing too aerobic.

Looking at you, I feel my heart seize with the inevitable, and wonder how I’ll bear your passing, my loss. It gets harder every time. The sinking truth, so wisely spoken by Mary Oliver, that our dogs die too soon, and we would do anything to keep them with us longer.

My storytelling over, I caress your silky ears, again kiss the top of your head, and lay my hand on your rib cage as you lay your head on my lap. All is quiet except for the tick tock of the cuckoo clock. Soon your soft and steady breathing syncs with mine. Looking outside, I notice the windsock hanging on the bare willow barely stirring.

A few moments later, all is in sync – the clock and our breathing, the swaying windsock and wind chimes.

As if each and all are moving to the soft and slow and steady rhythm of our inhale and exhale.

The sun glows orange on the claret-coloured blanket draped across the sofa.

The sky, a robin egg’s blue.

And in this moment, I feel we have stepped into a timelessness that is eternity.

Found for a moment, you and me, heaven here, on our sofa.

(An “adoration” is a poetic form of deep love and devotion originating in spiritual traditions. I wrote this for Annie in 2020, with minor revisions today.)

How life changes on a dime.

Just a week ago I ended my Monday morning post – the first in weeks – with an update on the remarkable recovery of our beloved Annie dog. Today, I write this post with equal measure heartbreak, and gratitude for her.

Yesterday at dawn, Sunday, June 18, after holding vigil for her on “her sofa” for the night, we knew it was time to make the final trip to the vet. After another day of being so totally present in all the ways she is uniquely “Annie” to and with us, Saturday evening it suddenly came to an end. Rousing from sleeping beside me while I watched a movie, I opened the door for her to go outside. She stood unsteadily, disoriented, with labored breathing – just like the end of April. As the evening progressed, it became apparent she had lost the function of her legs and sensed with us the inevitable. Carrying her in a towel sling to the truck, we drove the short distance to the emergency clinic to begin that last intervention, one administered with much tenderness, respect and reverence for her, and us.

I know many of you have met Annie, enjoyed my stories of her, and posting of her photos as we walk in our neighborhood. Too, many of you know well the path Sig and I now walk, this our 6th time. Overcome with the shock of this time’s sudden, irreversible turn, this is the best way to let you know of her passing and our loss. If you choose to comment here or on social media, please know we will read with gratitude but may not be able to reply.

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.