Our pets become such a big part of our lives. They may not have the same emotional gravity as people, but they also don’t have as much emotional complexity. Sometimes they can seem like a daily chore, but they radiate so much unfeigned welcome and warmth and friendship and mirth, and are so profoundly grateful for whatever ounce of attention they get from us.
We become like Adam and Eve; tending the garden, naming the animals. Or like Noah, sheltering them from the storms and craziness of this world. And they are so utterly grateful.
So when they’re gone the space they occupied is missing something…someone. That cool nose in the small of the back. The purring drooling cat in your lap. The noise of their nails scrabbling along the wood floor to greet you at the door. The tail thumping on the carpet (or coverlet). The muffled barks in their sleep.
Or, the cries of confusion, and whimpering of distress. As difficult as their last days can be you are their guardian. Their advocate. Their friend. Their family. You are the center of their world and you are so utterly grateful for the chance to have become this for them. Then you are faced with the “decision.” (Does being a guardian, an advocate, or a friend include euthanasia?)
And then the space they occupied in your life is cool to the touch, and silent. Absent except for the memories and mementos of their lives with us, and within us.
For Milo, Catty, Sunny, Wolf, and Black Cat.
“DACHSHUNDS AREN’T REAL DOGS!”
I remember saying this to Mikala when I heard she got a puppy. And then I heard how brave he was (briefly) in the face of a litter of Jack Russells, and how he ran and hid between Mikala’s feet. Fated? Fait accompli?
When I met him he began to transform that canine ideal I had fixed in my mind. (The wolf-like profile of the Alaskan Malamute baying at the winter moon in the middle of the night.) Milo was nothing like any dog I had ever known. He was the opposite of the “alpha male” and pretty okay with it. He more closely resembled a hot water bottle in both shape and temperament. But…
…he was charming. Standing on his hind legs. Growling at you from five inches off the ground when he wanted something. Hackles raised, barking at turkey buzzards flying overhead. (How dare they!) Chasing squirrels. Slinking out of the room during football season. Running back when he heard someone in the kitchen. Gravitating to the most comfortable lap or the person who most needed comforting.
Milo’s typical day? Wake you up by standing on your bladder and growling. Going outside for a quick pee, leaping across the threshold to eat breakfast, and then heading back to bed. (Burrowing under the covers of the freshly made bed.)
An hour or two later, whine at you to be let out, visit the Little White Dog across the street and pooping on their lawn. Another snooze, and up again to chase bunnies and doze on the deck (to chase bunnies in his sleep).
Back inside for another snooze. Barking at the mailman. Sniffing around the yard. Snooze. Dinner. Snuggling on the couch. Go outside to bark at the neighbors, and then back to sleep for the night, sprawled along the length of the warmest person in bed, until they’re balanced on the edge of the bed trying to avoid Little Mister Fahrenheit.
We miss you, buddy. Friend.
I was driving up the Eyrarbakkavegur to my regular chess therapy appointment at the Bobby Fischer Center in Olfuss, Iceland, when I came across one of these little guys in a hard hat and high-visibility safety vest holding an orange safety flag.
Being from the New York metro area, I was initially annoyed at the delay, but upon closer look I noticed that this “flag-skink” was supporting the annual skink migration from their traditional winter home in Reykjavík, to their summer feeding grounds near Flúðir.
The 100+ km distance is a short 1-2 hour drive by car, but for the Common Icelandic Skink this can be a grueling 1-2 week long trek across many busy (for Iceland) roads and several broad and frigid rivers. Fraught with danger from a variety of sources, both native to the Island nation and of the foreign variety.
Native dangers include hungry puffins, Atlantic salmon, and Supply Chain Management consultants. The latter have become increasingly agitated in their opposition to the Common Icelandic Skink due to the tax breaks the government has given them in the important national transport and logistics market. (There have even been some formal protests and angry language bandied about against what is being viewed by some as cronyism.)
Non-Icelandic dangers, while normally limited to drunken frivolities at the local hot springs followed by a visit to McDonald’s, have been fraying the edges of the social fabric of the skink population. This is because petroleum companies have been paying high wages to have young skinks work for them on the oil rigs in the North Sea, upsetting the delicate ecological balance and traditional family values of the Common Skink.
So this is why, upon reflection, I was so impressed by the skink on the road to Olfuss. He was one of the teenage skinks the foreign oil companies were so avidly recruiting. With the typical aqua blue tail and yellow and black stripes of a young male skink in his prime, here he was volunteering to warn drivers of the migrating herds of skinks! This wasn’t just admirable, it was becoming more and more uncommon. And so, I salute you, and others like you!
The uncommon Common Icelandic Skink.
* not “Spink”
Warning: The following post uses gender-specific concepts like him and her. As a nod to those who may be offended by the premise that there are males and females the author has used italics to support their fragile psyches.
As we approach that festive time of year when the emotional expectations of one half of the population zooms past the perceptual limits of the other half’s reality (which on a good day is bucking for Energy Star™ certification) we have to ask ourselves, “Self, what is my role in this turgid universe of emotion? How do I both adjust my expectations (on one side of this binary equation) and exceed them (on the other side)?” (This assumes you have a binary identity and that binary identity understands how to parse the question in a way that supports a unified answer.) This is why we need to approach the festivities with a Gestalt approach to reality. That the duality is actually a unity and any expectation of “delivering the goods” on this upcoming St. Valentine’s Day is, frankly, a clue to go get some professional help.
For those of you few who are still with me, let me first address those whose effulgent expectations might need sunglasses.
- Regardless of his age he is still learning that there is more than one person in the room.
- Regardless of how long you’ve been together, he needs to be reminded of the previous point (above) upon waking. (Note: Coffee and a hot shower helps him grok the gestalt of duality faster but if you give him too much time you risk his being lost to the demons of the “to do” list. Practically speaking this gives you a window of about 12 seconds before the full effects of the caffeine and the body wash have restored his sense of singularity. Ideally, you’re there to hand him the towel, while pulling the coffee cup out of his reach.)
- If you’ve achieved Satori you’ve realized that a sudden acceleration or deceleration in decibel levels does not support the achievement of Satori in him.
- As in Aikido, you must find a way to unify the forces between you and him and “become” one. (See also: Aikido.)
- You must have the mental and emotional fluidity to find the “lever” that will help him “see” that there is more than one person in the relationship and that it is to his benefit if he is standing anywhere near a heavy blunt object, thus creating an emotional “win/win” situation.
Now let us swivel and address those who have learned to don the polarized sunglasses of detachment and live in the fun house of mirrors called, the Fortress of Solitude. (Don’t worry, I’ll use short words, dude.)
- That blinding light and clanging gong in front of you is another person. They do exist; and no, they are not tools. Nor are they the enemy.
- Applying a little Noise Canceling to the ego may help you just make out, “Do you even hear what I am saying?” coming from that other person (stay with me) standing in front of you. (Again; they are not the enemy.) This is the first step toward “sublimation.” (See #5 below.)
- Just because you’ve acknowledged her existence in the past doesn’t mean (focus on my voice) you’ve achieved the philosophical goal posts of a “quantum of unity” with her. (Note: As cool as it sounds, quantum is not a word you want to use in relation to her. The chase for the sub-atomic is not a concept that applies to the duality of relationships and is used here only in a negative sense and should not, by any means, be thrown out in the heat of an argument.)
- If you’re one of the few, the proud, the sensitive you’ve begun to realize that making two cups of coffee in the morning is better than one, and building a shower big enough for you and her might help this process of integration along. (This is both practical and metaphorical.)
- Freud said that sublimation is a sign of maturity and civility. Paul wrote, “…husbands ought to love their own wives as their own bodies; he who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it…” (Ephesians 5:28,29) It’s hard to argue with both Freud and the Apostle Paul, so don’t even bother and just go buy the flowers and chocolates.
In the immortal words of Stan Lee, “’nuff said!’
Now that we’ve finally entered 1959 we can look forward to tons more tomfoolery from the goofy editors at MAD Magazine! Check out the latest issue featuring Orson Bean, Bob and Ray, and the outrageous Ernie Kovacs! (How do they get away with it!)
“What? Me worry!?”
A true icon of the rural Canadian wilderness, the Northern Blue Autoclave lizard has managed to avoid the paparazzi of the natural sciences for decades. The first documented evidence for the Northern Blue was in the back pages of DC comics magazines alongside advertisements for X-Ray Spex and mail-order hypnosis lessons.
We were thrilled to have this specimen sent to us by a faithful reader, Jethro Osborne of Dutch Madder, Manitoba. We’ve named her (you can determine the sex by looking underneath) “Blue” in honor of her color, and frankly her sense of humor. A sparkling wit, interlaced with profanities, can be heard coming from the glass tank where she is kept entertained with a pair of wild caribou mittens.
Many thanks to Jethro and the thousands of subscribers out there who have already commented on and liked our previous posts, and the legions of Icelandic herpetologists who have threatened to boycott us unless we post a similar blog post about the Common Icelandic Skink.