Recently, a friend of mine recounted a difficult day that ended well. I nodded along – we’ve all been there and will be again. Then, she ended the tale with “god is good all the time” and I was taken aback. Nothing in her tale invoked or even hinted at a god, as far as I could tell. This was not a tale of being saved from a terrible fate; this was a mundane event.

I’m writing now because, sometimes, writing helps me understand. Further, I imagine my friend would be taken aback by me being taken aback. We have an opportunity for discussion here, but we know going in, no minds will be changed fundamentally. Her surprisingly-casual and intimate relationship with the divine will not change nor will the scales fall from my eyes. I don’t want to change her or challenge her but I do want to respond to her or, rather, the shock I felt.

First, people have a right and need to speak and not everything we say should be analyzed or challenged. Self-expression becomes more difficult from adolescence on. In my case, so much of what I say is sheer glibbery, but, then, I don’t have an immortal soul or a god to back it up. If I did, s/he would save me from myself right now.

Secondly, in this world aflame, it is common to blurt out “screw you” or “you lie” in self-righteousness and self-importance. I do not mean to do so here.

I mean, instead, to get back to that initial story in which I saw no god and my friend saw “him” (?) every step of the way. That she believes in a god is not shocking. That she believes “god is good all the time” is jaw-dropping, given endless evidence to the contrary. It is as if we live in what should be separate universes. Yet here we are, occupying the same space-time with one huge paradox: : hers has a god and mine does not.

As you may know already , our house was robbed recently. Someone kicked in the side door, destroying the deadbolt, door, and frame. Beyond the destruction in the kitchen, the bedroom took the worst of the attack. The thug(s) ransacked Merri’s dresser, taking jewelry that was primarily of sentimental value. Sloppily, they left one earring each from several pairs. The bed was shoved aside to access an almost empty nightstand. A fanny pack in Mer’s closet was examined. It appears the thief/thieves broke into Merri’s locked office but touched nothing. It’s not clear they made it to my office. Someone methodically removed everything from the glovebox in the truck in the garage and opened both wardrobes. In the end, the most valuable object they took was a relatively new 19” TV and remote from the kitchen (<$200). In the process, they unplugged the stove, freezing its clock at 7:20, either Friday evening, 9/11, or Saturday morning, 9/12. Both times are still in daylight. Coming or going, the crook(s) left the front gate open (not all of the turtles are accounted for) and destroyed a section of the back fence for access to the church parking lot, which is visible from Indian School and the YMCA parking lot.

Because our neighbor checked the house around 7:25am Sat, there is a real possibility he interrupted the robbery. We’re glad he didn’t actually encounter these worthless vermin.

Lucky’s memorial is just outside that kitchen door, in the spot he occupied his last months and moments. If his spirit hasn’t moved on, he was beside himself over his inability to protect us this last time.

In the days since, we have cleaned up. There is a temporary heavy-duty bolt on the shattered door plus an alarm that shrieks at the slightest touch. We’ve ordered wrought iron security doors. We leave and return to the house with great trepidation. We’ve learned that many other houses in our neighborhood have been hit in recent weeks. The filthy scum will move on soon to terrorize another neighborhood. When I meet them in Hell, I will drive deadbolts through their eye sockets.

I think life is best lived without keeping score. If one insists on tracking ups and downs, then it is wise to recall some people have things unimaginably worse. But, detached philosophy aside, this has been a lousy summer: car totaled, dog dead, home invaded. Granted, Merri wasn’t hurt much in the wreck; we had 11 great years with Lucky; and the stupid thieves wasted their time shattering 22 years of peace and security for chump-change. Life goes on.

Four weeks ago today, Lucky died. We think of him every day and miss him dearly. I dreamed about him for the first time a couple of nights ago. He was looking up at me and I called to Merri, “Lucky’s here!” As I looked up, I could see into another room and saw another Lucky. From a third room, Merri replied, “He’s in here, too!” Read in this what you will.

For my 40th birthday, I asked my friends to shave my head in an unintentionally bloody fireside ceremony in Chaco Canyon. I half-jokingly referred to that as a ritual sacrifice. As an atheist, I have to create my own communal rituals and rites of passage to mark the milestones of my life.

Twenty four hours after Lucky’s death, I shaved my head again. In some cultures, the grieving ululate, whip themselves, and rend their clothing. Now I wear my sacrifice as a disfigurement I cannot hide. Still, in time, some of my hair may come back in a slow indication of renewal. Life does go on.

Although Lucky took to Merri immediately, he wasn’t so sure about me. He eyed me suspiciously and kept his distance. The first time I entered our bedroom as Merri slept, Lucky barked a warning. We considered it might be my maleness, about which I have never been able to do anything, one way or the other. In desperation, I shaved off my goatee (my pride), as a sacrifice for the pack. Eventually, Lucky came around and the goatee came back.

We’ll bury my hair with Lucky’s ashes, as well as with shards of his food bowl, which I shattered. A part of me will always be with a part of him, and vice versa.

I wrote Lucky’s obit the night before the end. Although I do feel it is terrible to have to euthanize a loved one, euthanasia is amazingly quick, peaceful, and a necessary release. Lucky’s long-time vet, Dr. Barb McGuire, and her tech, Amanda, could not have found a better balance of professional conduct plus heartfelt compassion. We put Lucky’s bed in the shade of the sideyard. Merri gave him his last piece of bacon. I picked him up and gently laid him down on the bed. He sighed. He didn’t flinch at the sound of the electric razor used to trim fur from his leg. We were all as ready as we would ever be. From pinprick to expiration couldn’t have taken 10 seconds. Merri and I sat with him in the grass until the animal cremation company arrived and kind Ely carted him away. That was the moment I felt the most regret – the loss felt more real suddenly — but we agree cremation makes sense.

It also makes sense that any person who is suffering beyond all hope of relief should have the option to end his or her own life with the help of a compassionate physician.

Thank you to everyone who has read these entries and to those who have written. Grief feels lonely, but it unites every living being. Death is the price of Life. Grief is the price of Love.

I remember the first time I saw Lucky. I was in my office at home and glanced out to the front sidewalk to see a very happy-looking dog prance down the street. I waited, expecting to see the owner follow, but none did. A few minutes later, up the street came Lucky again. Based on just that look, we could have called him Happy.

Eventually, we learned that most of the neighborhood had seen the stray dog in recent weeks. Many had put out food and water. All of the neighborhood kids wanted him for their own.

We were cat people at that time. Even so, one morning, Merri was talking to the neighborhood kids about the stray dog, when he rolled over into her lap. She was always his alpha and omega, his queen. Later, when we recognized that Lucky loved kids, we joked that he must have thought all those kids were Merri’s. If so, the joke was on him.

Before we took Lucky in – well before his name appeared – we had a meeting. Merri and I and Miss Kitty sat in our yard, while he sat in the next yard. “You have to leave our cat alone,” we insisted. He agreed to our terms – a pack is a pack.

Of course, we expected him to live in the yard. I remember looking out into the backyard to see Lucky standing on the narrow cinderblock wall, balanced perfectly. I raised a portion of the back fence and improvised a gate.

And then he ran away. I think he was gone at least a week; I was sure we’d never see him again. I was in the kitchen one night as it rained and I saw some movement next door. “Merri! He’s back.” He dragged himself into the house, apparently injured and weak. I fixed a lead to his collar and he stretched that lead as far as it would go into the dining room. He settled on a sleeping bag with a sigh. He slept inside for the next 10 years, usually under our bed, on Merri’s side.

Over those next 10 years, the three of us were constant companions. We bought a truck and a camper and drove to Hinton, Alberta, in a 5,000 mile, five week trip that first summer. We’ve camped up and down the Rockies, in New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and in Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah, and Arizona, plus a trip to Memphis, Tennessee. When we weren’t camping, we walked the neighborhood twice a day. Lucky introduced us to neighbors we’d never met. We were all lucky and happy.

We took one last trip to Colorado in late June. It rained every day, of course. Lucky slept in his own tent, the first time he wasn’t with us in the camper. I wondered if he would make it past the 4th of July, which he feared so. This year, the noise was nothing to him. I never expected him to last until August, but he did.

Lucky suffered his whole life from an autoimmune disease called pemphigus foliaceus, which constantly eroded his nose. We kept that disease in check through diet, making his raw food every few weeks. Eventually, we had to put him on steroids.

Old age isn’t a disease. Every body wears out and fails in some way. It was arthritis and, possibly, nerve damage, that slowed Lucky and dragged him to the ground, as surely as any predator. His decline became most noticeable this year. His gait grew more painful and his walks shorter. He could no longer stand in one spot without falling over, so he paced until exhausted. When he fell, often he couldn’t get himself back up. This was the only time he cried, from frustration. Still, his spirit never changed and his large heart beat strong.

It’s hard to kill someone you love, but there comes a time when more time really isn’t worth much. I wanted Lucky to live just long enough and to die in his sleep, but Life is too tenacious. The body struggles on beyond all reason and hope, even when living holds no more pleasure. In time, the kind thing is the hardest and one must find an impossible strength and resolve. The one thing worse than watching someone you love suffer is to end that suffering the only way possible. So, we ended Lucky’s suffering this afternoon. Ours will go on a while longer.

The Heaven of Animals

The meadow is his home now.
Up high in the mountains,
he lies in the shade
in a circle of trees
among the wild iris.

He yawns and stretches,
flips over
and rolls and rolls,
groaning in pleasure
in the tall sweet grass.

At any moment
he will sit up, alert,
ears sharp,
sniffing the air,
eyes intent on something
we can’t see
off under the trees.

His world is perfect now,
though I know he misses
the pats, the belly rubs,
the love in our voices:
lie down.
stay now.
good boy. _mjh

7/7/2004

I wrote this poem five years before Lucky Dog died, remembering a beautiful spot the three of us discovered. And, imagining the inevitable, I sobbed. This supports my hope that “any horror could be faced / and become a poem.”