Loving Harley for who she was

It's been six months since I lost Harley. I still cry every day but it doesn't last long. It's like a little cloud that blows through and sprinkles some emotion into my day. I feel guilty. I feel grief. I feel regret. I feel gratitude. I feel love. I feel a longing. The more I open to it, the more manageable it seems. Instead of bracing against it, not knowing how long or deep it will go, feeling my grief is just part of my day.

When I feel sad, I'll talk to her. I want to believe that she's still here, that she can still hear me. I tell her what I miss the most. That I miss holding her, I miss kissing her head. I miss her beautiful coat in her soft ears. What I say to her from the bottom of my heart is “I loved who you were.” 

When I got Harley, there were so many things that I needed her to be. I had a picture of what owning a dog would be like and that picture was what I wanted. She was a character in my fantasy. All evidence that it wasn't working be damned. I wanted the relationship with a dog that Disney advertised. If we weren't fitting it, there was something wrong with us and not the picture. 

Her separation anxiety seemed to be there from the start, but her fear based aggression came after a dog bite. For years I tried to manage it without really rocking the boat of our lives. Harley's behavior got bad enough to make me willing to try anything. Of course the answer was in the last place I wanted to look: Me. Harley didn't trust me because I wasn't taking care of her in the way she really needed. She didn't respect me because I didn't really give her a reason to.

I thought I was already the best owner possible. I was already a dog trainer. I had built a business so I could spend all day with her. What better dog owner could there possibly be? Unfortunately I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I wasn't doing the things I didn't know that I needed to be doing to earn the trust and respect I thought should have been a given from my dog.

Harley's struggles lead me to learn and change. Not willingly, but because my back was against a wall. When I stopped needing her to be something for me, when I took a step back and gave her room I was able to see who she was. When I stopped projecting on her, when I stopped being needy, when I stepped into the role of boss and out of the role of mother or friend or accidentally servant she had space to show me who she was. 

I'm only partially joking when sometimes I say that Harley was a huge disappointment to me. I wanted a dog who I could love on. I wanted a dog who would listen to me and trust me no matter what I did. That was not the dog that Harley was.

Harley didn't love to cuddle. She would listen to me - if she thought my idea was better than hers or if she knew she had no other choice, and not out of any sense of loyalty. She listened to me because she didn't like the consequences of not listening to me, which I delivered softly, consistently, and usually laughing to myself at her defiant spirit. 

Going through my healing journey I needed a lot of love and support. Harley’s calm company was invaluable. I cherished just being with her, but she was not a cuddly dog. Sometimes she would lay on the couch with me. When it was cold she would sit under a blanket with me or cuddle on my bed, but usually she had her own fur blanket that I would wrap her in at night on her little dog bed. She only wanted to sit on my lap if it was the most comfortable place available.

She loves to give kisses, which was not my favorite way of interacting with a dog, but that was okay. She loved it and I let her do it. When her excitement was tinged with anxiety, instead of meeting my own need of having an emotive excited and joyful reunion with my dog, I met her need for me to reinforce the calm mindset that I wanted to foster in her. I know that Harley loved being with me, but she would often show preference to anyone else who happened to be around - a partner, a friend or roommate. Harley would cuddle up, sit on, and relish in being pet by these other people. Sometimes I swear she would look back at me to make sure I was watching. 

Many of us have part of our self worth wrapped up in our relationship with our dog. We need for them to choose us, to be excited about us, to prefer us. I know that Harley loved me. I know that she needed me. I know that she appreciated my company, but she also loved to share her sweetness with and get affection from almost anyone else. As my friend said to me the other day on a call to commemorate Harley’s birthday, “between you, me, and Harley, she loved getting attention the most and not saying something.” 

Harley knew exactly what she could get away with and she loved to play with that line. On the summer hikes she ran ahead of us to go stand in the shade while I made my pack walk behind me in a heel. She would literally back out of group photos after I placed her in my line up of off leash dogs, as if I wouldn't notice. She didn't like being so close to the other dogs or waiting in the sun. Sometimes I would call her back. Sometimes I would let her do what she wanted. I had nothing to prove. I didn't need a perfect dog. I needed a relationship that worked for us, one where we could both be who we were and safely enjoy the things we loved doing together.

Harley was a smart, independent thinker when I would tell her to come along, especially at the barn where so much of my time was spent riding in circles she would understand the command, evaluate it, watch my next move, and decide if it really was in fact, the best course of action. 

Harley was an amazing dog, but that doesn't mean she was an angel. I would fuss at her really regularly. She would push the limits regularly. I didn’t take this as a censure on our relationship, my training, or her character. This was who she was: sassy, defiant, strong willed, intelligent. She was a dog that would make me earn my authority over her, not give it over out of loyalty or let me ride on the credit I’d accrued over the past decade plus. 

In all the ways that Harley was a disappointment were also ways that she was a gift. Instead of getting the ‘perfect dog,’ I learned how to love my dog perfectly. We both benefited and grew from our connection. I could guide her, but I couldn’t change her. Once I was able to see the real her, I never would have wanted to. I got the greatest gift a lover can hope for, that of seeing and appreciating her for exactly who she was.

The beach dog who walked me through grief

I got to the beach before sunrise. The dog was a light, sandy brown. I could have tripped over him. When I saw him sleeping in a ball I respectfully crossed to the other side of the path to the beach. To my surprise he got up and followed me. I waved my hand back and forth, as if to shoo him or dissuade him from getting too close to me, not knowing what his intentions were. 

I walked west towards apartment I rented last winter, towards my friend’s restaurant where I used to go. I was hoping to find the Englishman with the red hair and the dog who chased coconuts into the ocean. To my surprise the dog followed me and kept following me. He kept pace right next to me, pausing every now and then to search for crabs. As we walked, he ran up and barked at a Mexican man on the ridge of the sand carrying a stick, probably having had negative experiences with Mexican men with sticks. Wanting to help my dog friend, I fussed at him even though he had no control, even though I had no control as we don't really have a relationship. 

When my sandy dog would pause to hunt crabs I would stop and wait for him, watching the hunt. One time I saw a crab that didn't got his attention and I indicated with my hand where to look.  When it moved he went after it. I felt like this endeared me to him; he could see we were on the same team. I found a washed up reed on the beach near a smooth spot of sand. Walking, thinking about making this walk with Harley, thinking about being back in this place without her. This time I don't need to worry about her daily exercise schedule or the heat carrying her on my other shoulder along with my heavy computer, or worry about how each dog we passed would react to her and if she was safe. Even with her exquisite social skills, the dogs here have a code neither of us quite understood.

Alone on that section of the beach, I let myself cry, the kind of crying that changes your face in a way you don't want anyone to see. The dog, who had been staying within a bubble around me, but not coming too close, looped near me as if to check in. I reached down and scratched his head once to let him know I was all right. As he walked on I was grateful for the company. It can be hard to feel alone. I realized when we read that you'll probably misinterpret it. What I mean is it can be hard to feel when you're alone. We aren't really designed for it. His being there helped me release in to the sadness more than I would have on my own. 

Grief breaks us down and makes us want to believe a lot of things. I want to believe he knew that I needed the company before I did. I want to believe Harley is watching over me and she sent me a friend. I want to believe that of all the people who walked by, he chose me consciously and for a reason that means something about me. I think I believe that even though we're strangers because of what I know about dogs. We built a language - one where I can show him crabs and ask him not to bark when it might get him in trouble, one where we seem to have an understanding that we would wait for each other and work together. I want to believe, but I don't know if it's true.

This is part of why we get dogs. They're dependent on us. We can train them. We can let ourselves believe that they need us.  People get partners, get married for the companionship, to be chosen, to feel less alone on this earth. Children are dependent on us. They want our love. They need to ensure it for their survival. As they move through the world, we are the one constant. They reach for us. They reach for us. They reach for us, but we can't always be there. 

Perro, the uncreative name I've given my new dog friend approaches another dog, his body language stiff. I take a video, curious what he'll do, curious how the other dog will respond, if it will confirm my suspicions about his authority in the street dog world. The other dog politely sits, dips their nose down and away. He's pleased that his seniority has been recognized. After a quick sniff we walk on. I coo "good boy, good boy" because I’m pleased he moved on when I did. He wags his tail. You don't have to speak the same language to understand that happy, positive energy is a good thing. 

I love that about dogs. I want to say they don't hide their emotions, but then I think of Harley being tired, being sick, being in pain and so stoic. I wonder if she was worried about me, so obviously worried about her. I wonder if she was hiding what was going on inside of her from me to protect me or because she loved me or just because that is what animals do. 

I can tell from Perro’s wide head, from the way he carries his tail, from the way he approaches other dogs asking for their respect, that he moves through the world in a leadership role. When he spots another Mexican man I step towards him, trying to prevent a repeat performance, closing my hips, broadening my shoulders, making a sound that says no like the rumble strip on a highway. I annoy him until he decides it isn’t worth the trouble and he's back on track.

Perro has followed me quite far from where I found him, but I imagine he knows this simple long beach and can find his way back. I hope I'm not disrupting him as I indulge my deep desire for company, companionship. Me, usually so proud to be so fine alone, but I’m grateful he chose me, especially this morning, walking this beach without Harley and being unprepared, even though I knew it was coming, by how it grips my heart.

On the passing of my dog, Harley

Today is four months since Harley died. I wanted to write about it, but I didn’t know what to say. ee cummings wrote of “things I cannot touch because they are too near” and that was how it felt.  I haven’t wanted to write about it because I didn’t know what to say or I thought it would hurt too much, but I did post about the experience on my business instagram. Sometimes I motivate myself to handle things in an admirable way, especially when it comes to dogs, with the idea I can set an example for others. I honored my dog in her passing and in my grieving. Now, four months later, I honor her sharing my grief and in continuing my emotional processing so the legacy she leaves will be much more than one of pain and explicable guilt.

Over the 15 months before Harley died I took her to 8 vets, all of whom either explained away her symptoms or told me she was fine and it was in my head until I finally went to the university hospital at Texas A&M less than a week before she died. I trusted myself and how well I knew my dog instead of listening to the vets and giving up, but I wish I went to the university hospital sooner. I wish I mentioned the most important symptom and the one I didn’t share, that she was hunching her back to pee, which I’d learn right at the end was because tumors were growing in her urethra.

When I got back from the hospital I tried to manage my emotions and not be too distraught around her. I’d go into the garage to really let myself wail cry. We did the things she liked and kept to our normal routine of hikes and car rides and friends houses. She was more tired and I could tell she was in pain, but I had never lost a dog before. I was a beginner in this.

I spent a few days praying for a sign. I knew I wanted to make the call before it was obvious that she was in distress, I wanted to give her something we as humans don’t get which is the grace to exit our bodies without experiencing discomfort. So many owners I know who love their dogs and are terrified to lose them wait too long, making their dogs suffer a stroke, periods of incontinence, get to the point where they aren’t able to stand up. Dogs are so tough, especially when they know we are upset. I did the only thing I could think to do, which was pray for a sign that it was time and I got one. I felt a hand on my shoulder, then something nodded, as if to reassure me that this was the sign I asked for. I asked for another, different sign and felt another hand lay on Harley, as if to tell me we were held in this transition. I made the call to the vet who would come to our house.

That night I tried to stay awake. I let my heart break, but I also forced it to open. I heard Ram Dass saying that what is left when someone leaves is what occurs in the fullness of any one moment together, a shared connection of living love, for one heart to meet another in a way that inncoulates you from the uncertainties of life. I sat in complete horror, everything in me resisting what was occurring, wishing it wasn’t real. I also accepted it, stayed present for it, forced myself to meet my dog in love in the moments we had left together. It was completely terrible and also I don’t think I have ever been so present to any experience in my life.

In the days after I kept moving, saw friends, went to appointments but let myself be not okay, beyond sad. I heard Paul Simon sing “losing love is like a window in your heart. Everyone can see you're blown apart. Everyone can hear the wind blowing.” The next morning, my first morning waking up without her, I felt this little voice inside me ask “where’s my dog.” My internal alarm was going off. The radar that always knew where she was. The timer that told me to let her outside to pee. The schedule alert to feed her. The unconscious analysis of my day, the weather, yesterday’s activities so I could find the right time to get her the exercise she needed. These impulses I built over thirteen and a half years were all impotent. 

Intellectually, I knew very well what had happened the day before, but I could feel that my body was confused, for the first time in so long no longer being a distance from her body, no longer existing in relation to it. Instead of clamping down on what seemed emotionally excessive or unnecessary, immature, animalistic, I let down my guard and let what happened happen even though it didn’t make sense. I repeated the phrase “where’s my dog” with increasing volume and intensity as I tore around my house, looking in closets, the yard, the garage. 

I knew where my dog was. When I picked her out of her favorite soft pink bed to put her in hole in my backyard with her favorite toy, a letter, a photo of my guru, I could tell it wasn’t her. It was her body, but something was missing. I had such a real sense that that body wasn’t her, that the her-ness had left it. I wish for everyone to see the body of their loved one and know that the spirit has left it, perhaps it stays with us, or so I tell myself because when I reach out for her I can feel something is there.

I want to say the days after were the hardest. The pain was the most poignant, the emotional outbursts the most intense and longest. They say a griever has the veil between them and the spirit world lifted. Even as I was my most desperate I also felt the most supported by things I cannot see. My ancestors, my angels, my soul family, I don’t know who was there, but they were. A woman collapsed on her living room floor crying because her dog is gone and she’s all alone with 100 spirits surrounding her and holding her so she could feel their love. I had one foot in each world in a way I don’t today. 

I want to say the days after were the hardest, as a poem I loved wrote of heartbreak “an animal being birthed from my chest,” but it was hardest after time had passed, when I hoped it wouldn’t be hard anymore, but it still was. Grief would catch me unaware as I moved through my day. It had it’s grip on me and squeezed when it felt like it. When my friends lost dogs they would post an announcement with photos like this, then I wouldn’t hear about it again. I kept asking myself if it was normal to be crying every day for months. I was racked with guilt for everything I didn’t do for her. I fed her a raw diet of human food. I started a whole god damn business to hang out with her all the time. I didn’t go places that weren’t dog friendly, at least not for longer than 6 hours. I took her hiking almost every day of her life. I offended plenty of owners pulling their large or overly enthusiastic dogs away from her when I could tell she was uncomfortable, but I have been completely consumed by the guilt that I didn’t do enough for her, didn’t love her enough, that I failed her in some vital and unforgivable way. My therapist says when I think that I just need to translate it as my heart saying “I wish you were here.”

Between friends, family and clients over 100 people reached out to me when Harley died. I couldn’t believe it. Death is always a blur, but I know I counted. So many people had photos of my dog on their phone. People told me how sweet she was and how special she made them feel. They said their dog was more comfortable around her than any other dog or that she helped teach them good manners. They were impressed with her endurance. They appreciated her feisty spirit, strong mindedness and sass. Everyone thinks that they have the best dog, that their dog is special, but I felt like I had proof.

In my grief I was conspiratorially self conscious. I was afraid that people were only being so nice to me because I was single and childless, that I was some pathetic loner who had no one in her life except her dog. I loved my dog, but she was a dog, not a partner or child. She was an amazing companion, but still a dog. I can admit now that that little dog was my longest, healthiest, most consistent and loving companion. Learning to see her for who she was and give her what she needed, not what I wanted to give, taught me what love was. Becoming the person she needed me to be in order to provide her with a sense of safety in the world motivated me to grow, to do the inner work I was afraid or too lazy to do. I needed to find my own stability and balance, to ground in a sense of inner okayness so deeply that I could ground her, too.

Without Harley I wouldn’t have my business. I wouldn’t be able to teach what she taught me about what dogs need. I wouldn’t have had all that healing time in nature, 13 years of hiking with my dog. Those same years to practice putting someone else’s needs ahead of or alongside my own. I think that is the part I miss the most, caring for someone in that way, as if they were a part of me, having a direction, an action in which to spill my heart. I think this is part of why we get dogs, because the way our social world is set up we all have a backlog of love to give and no clear and easy way to give it to someone who needs it.

Thank you, Harley, for all those sweet years. Thank you for making sure I found my way to you, my little craigslist backyard bred dapple dachshund. Thank you for being my teacher, my companion. Thank you for inspiring me to do for you what it was so hard to do just for myself by myself, to heal. Thank you for loving me and letting me love you. Someday when it doesn’t hurt so much, I know that when I open my heart to be in love you’ll be waiting, tail wagging, to meet me there.