A short story about dogs and life and gratitude
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Join Date: Mar 2017
Location: Northeast, USA
Posts: 275
A short story about dogs and life and gratitude
<Please note: a long post>
I almost drank before the following set of events happened. Like the for real, buy-the-hard-stuff-not-just-a-bottle-of-wine (or two) sort of almost drank.
But I didn't. And then this happened.
A bit of backstory: We are fortunate to have a couple of small ponds in our backyard (I love water and fish). There is a main koi pond and a smaller pond just below it. When the ponds were installed nine years ago, we had just recently adopted a retired racing greyhound who we discovered loved the water, so when we had this smaller pond built, we designed it in particular for him so that he could walk down its gentle slope and into a tiny pond that came up to just above his chest level. For as many years as he was able, after every walk in the summer he would come home and the first thing he would do is walk into that pond and bite or splash the water with his paws. He was one happy puppy.
I’m a huge lover of all things nature, and when the ponds were put in, I was excited to start off aquatic plants. Particularly water lilies. There is something about the lily that beckons me. A lily is simple and regal at the same time. When its time comes, it springs forth among a sea of large, deep green pads that appear to have grown as if a stage waiting expectantly for the star of the show.
It pops up quite unexpectedly, almost as if it were a botanical Jack-in-the-box. It draws you from far away, sitting amongst its sea of protective leaves, but then, when you get close, it reveals an impressive surprise—from inside its monochromatic green bulb has arisen a work of art: brilliant in color, stunning in form, yet somehow unassuming and modest. At night, the day-blooming lily retires to its bud state, as if in rest. Simply put, for me, it is exquisite.
So you can perhaps understand my desire to grow them.
And so I rushed out and bought lots of established hardy lilies, ones that could stand the cold grip of the Northeast climate in which I live and emerge from hibernation as if unfazed by the harshness of the winter months.
Nada. Nothing. No beautiful lilies. Not the first year, not the second, not the third. I bought more lilies every year, changing varieties, moving to shade-tolerant, feeding the best fertilizer, reading about what I might do differently. If there was a chance it might work, I asked about it, bought it, or did it.
Finally, after about five years. I gave up.
Then one year, when I was meandering in the garden store, I saw a stand with lily bulbs. My strong desire to have one of these plants grace the pond arose once again. I grabbed a bulb that pictured a beautiful white flower with a touch of saturated yellow at its base.
That particular year I decided to try out the lower pond. I quickly forgot about the lily when it did absolutely nothing that year. I was pleasantly surprised when it set forth leaves the following spring. Was this the year I was to be rewarded?
Nope, unh-unh. No lily. Not a one.
The second year, even more leaves, almost to a point where they were taking over the pond. But no lily. Not even a bud set. I liked the leaves so I let it be and resigned myself to adoring lily flowers in other locales.
But then…
But then this year—well yesterday to be exact—I went out to clean the lower pond and saw it: amidst this year’s ocean of green leaves was a nascent bulb. I stopped in my tracks and stared in awe.
And then I realized the pond I had placed the bulb in three years ago was the pond we had designed for our greyhound, whom we got when he was 2 years old and who is now a bit less than a month shy of 14.
I mentioned earlier that our loving greyhound adored this pond, and went in almost every time he went out into the yard (in fact, we’d often have to urge him to stop when he tried to go in after early spring walks as ice still thinly covered parts of the surface).
What I didn’t say earlier was that our dog’s light is, very sadly, quickly fading. We have decided to help him cross over to the bridge this coming Saturday.
Which meant that the lily that I saw yesterday—the first bloom I have ever seen after nine years of trying unsuccessfully to grow water lilies—I saw on the first day of the last week of his life. In “his” pond.
When I went to take photos of the emerging flower, it was overcast. To my surprise, my silent wish for just a bit of sunshine was granted. The sky started to clear and 10 minutes later rays from the late-day sun filtered through tree limbs to shine on this 1.5-wide by 3.0-inch tall small marvel.
So I just started taking photos. And more photos. And then some more after that.
When the sun had disappeared I excitedly went inside to download the images. As I began clicking through them I was disappointed to find that even though on auto, the camera blew out the white end of the spectrum, somehow, seemingly inexplicitly, not auto correcting for the creamy white flower petals.
Then I noticed the camera did that on almost every...single...shot out of the nearly 150 shots I took of the lovely lily. But instead of thinking the pictures were ruined (I’m sort of an old-school purist who doesn’t like to use Photoshop), I chose to think of it a different way: it was a sign of our dog’s spirit (see photo attached below).
Is all of this sentimental? Absolutely. Positively. No doubt. But an amazing set of circumstances came together on the first day of the week I'm saying goodbye to my beloved dog, the first dog I have ever owned as an adult, and a dog like there never has been and never will be again. And I can hold onto that symbolism every time that hardy lily (Nymphaea odorata for those botanically inclined) blooms in that pond each year. And it can help me remember him and keep him in my heart.
And, the very most important part of this (actually pretty long) short story: I experienced it sober. I am currently struggling with moving from drinking every day for decades to never drinking again. To have experienced this without alcohol is a gift for which I will be forever grateful.
End note: I am trying to write about my dog every day this week (this is my first day to do so) and may possibly want to post another one or two vignettes in the next few days. I’ve only been on SR a few months and am not totally sure of forum etiquette—mods: please feel free to move this to another forum and let me know via internal mail if this kind of post is better suited somewhere else.
Writing and sharing this kind of thing is my way of helping myself deal with what will be an incredibly difficult loss (I have no children, just dogs). And, most importantly, it helps me deal with difficult feelings that are a part of life instead of drinking to numb them. I am grateful to SR for being here as I struggle to make my way through this.
I almost drank before the following set of events happened. Like the for real, buy-the-hard-stuff-not-just-a-bottle-of-wine (or two) sort of almost drank.
But I didn't. And then this happened.
A bit of backstory: We are fortunate to have a couple of small ponds in our backyard (I love water and fish). There is a main koi pond and a smaller pond just below it. When the ponds were installed nine years ago, we had just recently adopted a retired racing greyhound who we discovered loved the water, so when we had this smaller pond built, we designed it in particular for him so that he could walk down its gentle slope and into a tiny pond that came up to just above his chest level. For as many years as he was able, after every walk in the summer he would come home and the first thing he would do is walk into that pond and bite or splash the water with his paws. He was one happy puppy.
I’m a huge lover of all things nature, and when the ponds were put in, I was excited to start off aquatic plants. Particularly water lilies. There is something about the lily that beckons me. A lily is simple and regal at the same time. When its time comes, it springs forth among a sea of large, deep green pads that appear to have grown as if a stage waiting expectantly for the star of the show.
It pops up quite unexpectedly, almost as if it were a botanical Jack-in-the-box. It draws you from far away, sitting amongst its sea of protective leaves, but then, when you get close, it reveals an impressive surprise—from inside its monochromatic green bulb has arisen a work of art: brilliant in color, stunning in form, yet somehow unassuming and modest. At night, the day-blooming lily retires to its bud state, as if in rest. Simply put, for me, it is exquisite.
So you can perhaps understand my desire to grow them.
And so I rushed out and bought lots of established hardy lilies, ones that could stand the cold grip of the Northeast climate in which I live and emerge from hibernation as if unfazed by the harshness of the winter months.
Nada. Nothing. No beautiful lilies. Not the first year, not the second, not the third. I bought more lilies every year, changing varieties, moving to shade-tolerant, feeding the best fertilizer, reading about what I might do differently. If there was a chance it might work, I asked about it, bought it, or did it.
Finally, after about five years. I gave up.
Then one year, when I was meandering in the garden store, I saw a stand with lily bulbs. My strong desire to have one of these plants grace the pond arose once again. I grabbed a bulb that pictured a beautiful white flower with a touch of saturated yellow at its base.
That particular year I decided to try out the lower pond. I quickly forgot about the lily when it did absolutely nothing that year. I was pleasantly surprised when it set forth leaves the following spring. Was this the year I was to be rewarded?
Nope, unh-unh. No lily. Not a one.
The second year, even more leaves, almost to a point where they were taking over the pond. But no lily. Not even a bud set. I liked the leaves so I let it be and resigned myself to adoring lily flowers in other locales.
But then…
But then this year—well yesterday to be exact—I went out to clean the lower pond and saw it: amidst this year’s ocean of green leaves was a nascent bulb. I stopped in my tracks and stared in awe.
And then I realized the pond I had placed the bulb in three years ago was the pond we had designed for our greyhound, whom we got when he was 2 years old and who is now a bit less than a month shy of 14.
I mentioned earlier that our loving greyhound adored this pond, and went in almost every time he went out into the yard (in fact, we’d often have to urge him to stop when he tried to go in after early spring walks as ice still thinly covered parts of the surface).
What I didn’t say earlier was that our dog’s light is, very sadly, quickly fading. We have decided to help him cross over to the bridge this coming Saturday.
Which meant that the lily that I saw yesterday—the first bloom I have ever seen after nine years of trying unsuccessfully to grow water lilies—I saw on the first day of the last week of his life. In “his” pond.
When I went to take photos of the emerging flower, it was overcast. To my surprise, my silent wish for just a bit of sunshine was granted. The sky started to clear and 10 minutes later rays from the late-day sun filtered through tree limbs to shine on this 1.5-wide by 3.0-inch tall small marvel.
So I just started taking photos. And more photos. And then some more after that.
When the sun had disappeared I excitedly went inside to download the images. As I began clicking through them I was disappointed to find that even though on auto, the camera blew out the white end of the spectrum, somehow, seemingly inexplicitly, not auto correcting for the creamy white flower petals.
Then I noticed the camera did that on almost every...single...shot out of the nearly 150 shots I took of the lovely lily. But instead of thinking the pictures were ruined (I’m sort of an old-school purist who doesn’t like to use Photoshop), I chose to think of it a different way: it was a sign of our dog’s spirit (see photo attached below).
Is all of this sentimental? Absolutely. Positively. No doubt. But an amazing set of circumstances came together on the first day of the week I'm saying goodbye to my beloved dog, the first dog I have ever owned as an adult, and a dog like there never has been and never will be again. And I can hold onto that symbolism every time that hardy lily (Nymphaea odorata for those botanically inclined) blooms in that pond each year. And it can help me remember him and keep him in my heart.
And, the very most important part of this (actually pretty long) short story: I experienced it sober. I am currently struggling with moving from drinking every day for decades to never drinking again. To have experienced this without alcohol is a gift for which I will be forever grateful.
End note: I am trying to write about my dog every day this week (this is my first day to do so) and may possibly want to post another one or two vignettes in the next few days. I’ve only been on SR a few months and am not totally sure of forum etiquette—mods: please feel free to move this to another forum and let me know via internal mail if this kind of post is better suited somewhere else.
Writing and sharing this kind of thing is my way of helping myself deal with what will be an incredibly difficult loss (I have no children, just dogs). And, most importantly, it helps me deal with difficult feelings that are a part of life instead of drinking to numb them. I am grateful to SR for being here as I struggle to make my way through this.
I don't have children either, and I know how dogs are family. You are in my thoughts.
Member
Join Date: Jun 2015
Posts: 2,576
Thank you for the beautiful photo and story, agrillaceous.
That precious clarity you describe ... being present and able to really take in the beauty and poignancy ... the sweet sadness of gently and honestly grieving the loss of a being so important to you ... these are real gifts of sobriety.
That precious clarity you describe ... being present and able to really take in the beauty and poignancy ... the sweet sadness of gently and honestly grieving the loss of a being so important to you ... these are real gifts of sobriety.
Member
Thread Starter
Join Date: Mar 2017
Location: Northeast, USA
Posts: 275
Thanks everyone. I have not written in quite awhile and the writing kept me from drinking last night. Your responses, your warmth, your encouragement, and your wisdom in response to what I wrote is what is going to keep me from drinking tonight.
tursiops999, I loved how you elegantly described the gift of sobriety in what I experienced yesterday. Thank you.
Dee, I need to hang onto your insight about hope and continuance. I noticed on Sunday when I was shooting pics that there was an unopened bud behind the one I saw. I thought of our other greyhound who is still with us. And when I saw another bud behind that? Well...I thought...who knows? The sober life is chock-full of possibilities, yes?
And Sao, I started to write a reply telling you my dog's name, but I realized as I was writing that there was much more behind the name than I had first thought. So your question piqued my desire to write about it. I'll be posting regarding that tonight in another essay that is once again interestingly tied to sobriety. Thanks for the serving as today's muse.
tursiops999, I loved how you elegantly described the gift of sobriety in what I experienced yesterday. Thank you.
Dee, I need to hang onto your insight about hope and continuance. I noticed on Sunday when I was shooting pics that there was an unopened bud behind the one I saw. I thought of our other greyhound who is still with us. And when I saw another bud behind that? Well...I thought...who knows? The sober life is chock-full of possibilities, yes?
And Sao, I started to write a reply telling you my dog's name, but I realized as I was writing that there was much more behind the name than I had first thought. So your question piqued my desire to write about it. I'll be posting regarding that tonight in another essay that is once again interestingly tied to sobriety. Thanks for the serving as today's muse.
Member
Join Date: Oct 2013
Posts: 11,417
I just lost my beautiful puppy Luna two days ago unexpectedly--she died due to allergy to anesthesia when getting spayed.
I had her three wonderful months, and I feel like part of me is gone. I didn't drink over it, and I won't.
I saw a huge dragonfly hovering outside the sliding doors
right after we buried her.
Almost like it was looking in the house.
Never seen one that big or a dragonfly doing that
in nearly twenty years here.
I empathize--no kids either--they are family.
The lily is beautiful--
I had her three wonderful months, and I feel like part of me is gone. I didn't drink over it, and I won't.
I saw a huge dragonfly hovering outside the sliding doors
right after we buried her.
Almost like it was looking in the house.
Never seen one that big or a dragonfly doing that
in nearly twenty years here.
I empathize--no kids either--they are family.
The lily is beautiful--
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Thread Starter
Join Date: Mar 2017
Location: Northeast, USA
Posts: 275
Hevyn, thank you very much for your sentiments. It means a lot to know there are people out there who understand what it means to lose a beloved pet companion.
Hawkeye, I don't know what to say. I lost a friend once unexpectedly and I was devastated because I wasn't prepared for it to happen and felt like I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. I can't imagine getting and bonding with a new pet and losing her so soon and so suddenly. My thoughts are with you. And you are an inspiration for not drinking; I don't know how you did that but the fact that you did provides me with hope that maybe I can get through this without the crutch I've leaned on for so long. Thanks for posting and sharing your story. Your thoughts have comforted me.
Hawkeye, I don't know what to say. I lost a friend once unexpectedly and I was devastated because I wasn't prepared for it to happen and felt like I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. I can't imagine getting and bonding with a new pet and losing her so soon and so suddenly. My thoughts are with you. And you are an inspiration for not drinking; I don't know how you did that but the fact that you did provides me with hope that maybe I can get through this without the crutch I've leaned on for so long. Thanks for posting and sharing your story. Your thoughts have comforted me.
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