by Milt Cunningham
Milt Cunningham
1605 Carter Lane
Springfield, Oregon 97477
(541) 746 4185
mcunningh@earthlink.net
August 30, 1999
Sometimes tragedy teaches us where our real help lies
(c)MiltCunningham 1999
I have thought about death a great deal, talked about it a little, and felt I knew something about it. To spare my wife and son, I have written and taped my memorial service. That has the added advantage of my being fairly sure something nice will be said about me, even if it isn’t true.
I have sat in cancer support groups and heard others say, “Why me?” or “It isn’t fair!” When I was told I had a large, malignant tumor, those thoughts did not enter my head. The unspoken part of “Why me?” is, “It should have been someone else.” And of course it is not fair, but it happens. So when my turn came, I did what I could, tried to pick up the pieces, and move on. From the wisdom of my age, and the strength of my maleness, I have been ready to cope with death—until it really happened to one who had dedicated herself to teaching me about love.
Recently, Rika, our everybody’s-friend Belgian shepherd, died of a very aggressive bone cancer. All my mature philosophy vanished in a puff of smoke. I cannot keep from thinking in angry frustration, “Why you? It isn’t fair.” Well, of course, I wouldn’t wish it on any other animal, even the ugly and mean ones. But only eight years and full of verve and joy—every other creature, human or not, a potential playmate. I’ve been doing a lot of swearing lately.
Everywhere I go, I talk to the empty space that follows me around. I see the black and golden body romping, tail-up through the ivy; the leap onto the bed with wild eyes and impish look challenging me to a game of bite-the-boss.
That old man who knew it all found out he doesn’t know anything. I think I need Rika more than she needed me. And I don’t know what to do.
My wife and I have begun attending a pet loss support group. Like all good support groups, it is a place of sympathetic understanding, some weeping, and quite a bit of laughter; a place where we are encouraged to brag about the loving hearts we have lost. I have discovered that I don’t know how to cry. I wonder if they teach classes in it at the community college.
Clarissa P. Estes in her amazing book, Women Who Run with the Wolves, says dogs are the magicians of the universe. Read “magicians” in its shallow meaning of worker of wonders, or in its deepest meaning of wise as we use the word, magi. Both ways, it fits. I used to hold Rika’s cheeks between my hands and, from five inches away, gaze into her eyes. I could never see the end. She drew me beyond the wetness of her tongue, beyond the warm love of her great heart, and the joy of her sweeping tail. She drew me beyond the totality of her dogness and my humanness to some mutual spirituality that she understood, lived in naturally, but I sensed only as a distant shadow.
We have learned a remarkable lesson while going through this turmoil of emotions. No one has ridiculed our concern and grief for a dog. When we found she had cancer, we printed a little plea for prayer or meditation on her behalf. We took it to the video store, Kinkos, churches, our doctor’s office, and restaurants, The Springfield News —- everywhere she was known and loved —- and asked if they would display it. We were refused by only one. We got responses, many from people we did not know. Some wanted copies of the plea.
Young Benji and Xavier, neighbor lads, came to the house with gifts for her —- a chew toy, and a snoopy toy. Benji said, “It cost four dollars, but she’s worth it.”
Since she died, not one person has yet said, “It was only a dog. Get yourselves another.” But numbers of people have told us how they miss her. We have received cards of condolence, and many E-mail notes of sympathy. Left by our door was an exquisite arrangement of flowers and a beautiful tile with a heart, her name, and date in gilt done by an artist friend.
Most touching of all has been the children, the ones who used to come to the door and ask, “Can Rika come out and play?”
When she died, we printed a little announcement, and took it to all those places that had displayed the plea. Several children saw it and came to offer their condolences. On the front step we found a blue stuffed dog, a small bouquet, a picture of a lovely little girl who had often played with Rika, and the note, “Sorry about your dog Rika. I know this wont heal you. I lost a dog his name is Joey we had to leve him when we moved he looks like Rika to. Love Angela.”
I would never have thought to do something like that when I was that age, and had I thought of it, I would not have known how.
Of course, I would rather have Rika back in good health. But her death has brought profoundly wonderful things to us from many beautiful people, a number of them quite young. Like a ray of light crossing a dark universe, love goes on and on, especially the love of someone like Rika.