Seeing What Appears
I was traveling the familiar route to the river with the dogs. Just past the second traffic light on the way, I spotted a large squirrel near the curb wriggling on its back. Peering into the rearview, at once I understood. The creature had been hit and injured. “Oh, no! Oh, no!” I cried as my vision blurred, my heart tumbling backward to the animal now wrestling for its life as traffic moved beyond it, as I left it behind. Mocha and Happy whimpered as I engaged the clutch and downshifted.
An ominous presence shoved me to attention as an SUV too big for its own good, or anybody else’s, closed in behind me, its ferocious grill charging at my back window like a mad soldier. I had unconsciously slowed to well below the speed limit and had to ram the accelerator hard to escape the assault. My right hand gripped the gear shift as my mind rushed to fill in the vacancy of language, the porous helplessness, the unexpected emotion. How could I leave that poor creature to suffer? And who was the asshole behind me? And were we one and the same?
Not more than an hour before, a silver squirrel, perfect from head to toe, had crept onto the patio near the rock garden. I had been at the dining room table and sat amazed at the health of its coat, the fullness of its tail. Had I ever seen a squirrel as beautiful? The dogs hadn’t suspected the visitor, oblivious in their favorite curl spots nearby. Mocha hadn’t eaten all day, stomach gurgles interrupting her regular mealtimes and making our morning walk less festive than usual. Even when I offered her a special treat, her tail hung low and her snout turned away at the sniff of it.
At the park, we stepped onto the big field where the sky dome stretched cleanly above. A flock of geese flew in and spread themselves across the flat center of the green space. I envied their happy community. We wouldn’t disturb them, I explained. The dogs and I moved along the perimeter as Happy and Mocha sniffed at tree trunks and pawed at who-knows-what. A meander suited me fine. The sight of the injured squirrel had unsteadied me, and my gait was more jelly than bone. Was the animal still alive? Had someone stopped to assist? After one big, imperfect circle, I ferried us back to the car. “Home,” I said as I pulled open the back door, neither dog gleeful to jump in.
Once in the garage, I unhooked the dogs from their harnesses in the mindless rote of routine. I took my jacket off then put it back on. A chill had found me and wouldn’t let go. The dogs slumped through the afternoon with a gravity I wasn’t used to. Had I transferred my upset about the squirrel onto the dogs? Were we all in sync with powerlessness and pain?
I was in the middle of a weak round of yoga, still wearing my jacket, when my phone rattled. A surprise text appeared from my writing partner, who was well into her newest manuscript, a collection of lessons from the many dog companions she had loved and buried over the years. A decades-old photo of her with Pookie during her sabbatical year. The uncontained joy in their faces did my heart good.
Not three hours later, my phone rattled again. A text from my daughter:
We just put Jake down. 💔💔💔
I pressed speed dial and waited. Before I heard her voice, I heard her sniffles. “Mom, I really don’t feel like talking right now.” I told her I understood, how sorry I was. Visions of her as an infant, just born, resting on my belly, crowded in. My sweet girl, my sweet girl. “I love you, honey,” I whispered.
The helpless sadness arrived that comes from not being able to change what is. I had known Jake since he was a puppy, a lively, precious, perfect husky with energy to burn. Ten years later, his body was unable to carry on. I tumbled over to Mocha and buried my wet face in the thick coat of her neck. You’ve known, haven’t you? You’ve known. Like magic, my daughter’s courage descended around me like a warm blanket. She was a grown woman and had done a hard, hard thing.
I thought of dear Jake and his pain. I thought of the injured squirrel. I thought of my daughter’s loss. I thought of the hard work of releasing creatures from torment. I thought of what it is to be alive. To love. To see suffering. To do what we can to reduce it. To live with ourselves when we can’t. And how much all of that can hurt.
