On Friday, I said a final good-bye to my Australian Kelpie
dog, Sketch. She was fifteen; they are never old enough to make letting go
easy. Sketch would have stayed until she couldn’t stand, couldn’t
walk beside me any longer, but I wanted better for her. I loved her enough to
give her not only a good life, but also a good death. She loved me enough to show me what it means to live life well.
Sketch tackled life with tenacity and determination. She
taught me that attitude really is everything. She showed me on a daily basis
that the only thing that limits you is you.
I often had to force her to slow down, to respect her body’s limits, because age
is limiting to a certain extent. I
acted out of love. Sketch taught me to consider whether the forces holding me back are coming from a place of love
or fear, and how to react accordingly.
While she had her anxious moments,
I sometimes called her my ‘go with the flow dog,’ because she was ready for
anything as long I was with her. She tolerated photo shoots, new doggie members
of the family, and wearing coats and snowsuits despite her objections because I
asked her to. She adapted to changes around our home in recent months with
relative ease, despite some of the changes making daily life more difficult for
both of us. Her willingness to adjust to change instead of resisting is a
lesson I still struggle to learn.
As she aged Sketch often needed
rescuing from life’s chaos. Whether she needed an escape from my rambunctious
nieces and nephews, or to end a walk early because the park was too scary that
day, she showed me what she needed and trusted me to act on her behalf. She
taught me that it’s okay to ask for what I need and to accept help when I need
it. Sketch wanted to go everywhere
with me, even if getting there meant being carried upstairs, or lifted into the
car. She wasn’t too proud to accept my help. We all need to be ‘carried’ at
some point in our lives. There is absolutely nothing wrong with needing a
hand—or a paw—to hold.
Sketch taught me to be afraid, but not frozen. To be scared,
but keep trying. Move forward until I can’t take another step, and then try
again another day. Because next time the shadowy tunnel through the woods up
ahead might look inviting, not terrifying. I’ll never know what I might be
missing if I let fear hold me hostage.
Sketch also taught me this: when you are afraid, don’t go
alone. Find your pack, the ones who make you feel safe, and hold on to them.
Once you find them, it’s important to appreciate your pack. Even when you are
annoyed or frustrated with them (as Sketch often was with the younger dogs) remember, one day you might need a hand to hold. Show your love. Greet them gleefully, share your favorite toys, make them leave the house and
enter the real world, check in with them just to say ‘hey, I’m here.’
The most important lessons Sketch taught me are to trust and
to love. Trust and love yourself. Trust and love your pack. Trust that the
world is not out to get you, and when it feels like it is, trust the people who
love you to have your back.
The things I will miss the most
about Sketch are things I can’t photograph, can’t bottle up and save. Like, the
intensity of her gaze when she was absolutely focused. The way her eyes gleamed
and crackled with energy when she begged for chicken, ice cream or pizza
crust; the sound of her tail thumping against the floor when she had a
particularly good dream. The elbow nudges she would give me in the midst of a
writing fervor, more insistent with the passing of the hours. I’ll miss her
getting up from her bed each evening to find me on the couch, as if I might
have vanished while she was sleeping, and the ten tries it took me to toss a
kernel of popcorn to her bed while I watched TV because we were both too lazy
to get up from our comfortable places. I groaned about how heavy she felt each
night, but I will miss carrying her upstairs, and down again in the morning.
I’ll miss her nightly routine of peeking into the bathroom to make sure I
hadn’t disappeared while I brushed my teeth.
I’ll miss the sound of her paws
across the floor as she rushed to watch me run up the stairs, as if wishing her
old joints could still make the trek. Her eyes were always on me, ready and
waiting to follow me wherever I might be going.
I will even miss the annoying
things. Like her habit of licking random things, like the wire dog crates, or
the side of the stove and the way she drank water like she’d been deprived all
day, in a rhythm that never changed. I’ll miss the way the hair on her paw pads
More then anything, I will miss the
way she liked being hugged, and how she would lick my nose, so soft and gentle.
Most of all, I will miss the love.
June 9, 2001 - September 23, 2016
