Barking at Babies

From the living room our three dogs, Cooper, Bella and Jet are all puffed up and raising hell with their different pitches of yell-barks, each in a different position to get a good look at the trespassers in front of our house. Bella has her feet on the window sill, poised to protect the home, barking shrilly. She is the one who started it. She is ALWAYS the one to start it. Cooper is standing on the recliner, his four feet balanced precariously on the two arm rests, the chair rocking back and forth, close to tipping over. He always has Bella’s back but he is only softly woofing, unsure as to whether this is a three alarm emergency or only a two. Cooper is more discerning about imminent danger. Jet is on the end of the couch looking over Cooper’s head and has puffed his 135 pound body up to look about 200 pounds, his hair formed in a razor back, a deep guttural growl coming out of his throat, something that would scare the heck out of anyone who didn’t know he was a complete chicken. He ALWAYS puts himself behind Bella and Cooper and should Bella turn and bark at HIM he’d be in my lap in half of a second, cowering and crying in fear: tiny baby lap dog.

This particular ruckus was on account of the fact that a young couple had the audacity to walk by our house with a baby in their arms and steering a toddler, who was weaving along the sidewalk like a drunken sailor.

My dogs were barking at babies as though they were orcs coming to kill us all.  

I didn’t shame them. They were just doing their job: protecting the fortress. And I know that the one time I don’t acknowledge what they are barking at, it will be some kind of home invasion situation. Though I suspect that both Cooper and Jet would easily be lured to the dark side if a snack were offered. They can’t help it: they’re labs. Bella, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, has reservations about almost everyone, especially short men and would be the only one to possibly draw blood. She has a red mark in her file at the vet. In her defense the vet was a short man with a very, VERY loud voice and she was very very sick. I kind of wanted to bite him too. We have since changed to a soothing female doctor with a soft voice and healing powers.

At the very least, the dogs let us know several times a day and with great gusto when an Amazon package or a box of flooring samples for work have arrived on the porch so we can avoid theft. I mean we  don’t want the thief to be all disappointed with carpet books. I will say, no one seems to bark with any earnestness at the mail carrier anymore. But he IS very tall. 

It is the new year now and the dogs are both glum and relieved to have their routine back after a couple of weeks of not being able to sit on the couches because of the visiting humans who apparently take precedence for a spot off of the floor. We’re back to just the four humans residing in the household, which feels almost like empty nesting after the larger group of  twelve to fifteen people here at any given moment for all the various high energy Christmas and New Year celebrations.  

There was a veiled edge of sadness amongst us all during our celebrations because we knew that it might be Cooper’s last Christmas. In September we discovered a cancerous tumor (adenocarcinoma) in his left nasal cavity. After a lot of consultation and discussion, we elected to not have him go through radiation. The trauma, potential side effects and financial burden were all deemed too much for Cooper and for his stewards. His prognosis is devastating: 3-6 months without treatment. 12-18 months WITH treatment, but with potential side effects that could require additional treatment.

As I write this I am listening to “Adagio for Strings” by Samuel Barber: a beautiful, joyful, haunting, striving, clinging to life, and somewhat torturous melody. It’s helping me feel the words that can’t truly describe this place of ebb and flow between joy and sorrow we humans experience. I’m not sure if dogs understand the fragility of life or if it is just a human curse/blessing to know that our time in these bodies is not permanent.

But dogs without a doubt show us how to live: unceasingly in the moment.  

Right now, on this day, you would not even know Cooper was sick.  We have him on some heavy NSAIDs along with some supplements suggested from a book I bought called “90 Day Canine Cancer Miracle”. Since we started this somewhat homeopathic approach, he’s been acting like a puppy, playing with the other dogs and frolicking in the snow.  He’s also perhaps been playing the cancer card quite a bit too well because his begging for ‘people food’  has been elevated to a new level and recently he unwrapped and consumed an entire box of peanut butter protein bars from one of our son’s rooms in the basement: Trash Panda without the bandit mask. And with the decision to help Cooper to live his best possible life until further notice, he and his pals Murder Dog and Giant Baby get a frozen soup bone every night, a standing weekly order from the local butcher, where we don’t buy ANY human food. That would be too expensive. Ha! 

It’s a challenge to not live in fear and feel sick to my stomach everytime Cooper coughs or snorts or looks funny at me. I also acknowledge that I have grown hypersensitive to the other two dogs’s health as well. I literally have to FLING myself out the door everyday for work because I don’t want to leave my furry kids.  Don’t even get me started on fears about my family and friends’s health and wellbeing. It can be debilitating if I let it.

But I do not let it. 

I have learned, through a lot of internal work and deep prayer, how to continuously shift myself away from anxiety and fear into a space of peace and joy. It is without a doubt a constant work in progress but so necessary! My GOD how excruciating life can be if we let it, dwelling in a state of death and fear instead of how we as creations were created to live: in joy, wonder and aching awe.

I spent some time wailing over Cooper’s cancer. And that is okay. There would be some different work to do on myself if I were not sad about something like this. But eventually I came out of the deep sadness. We will watch over Cooper as his stewards and decide the next step when it comes. But I will not try not to waste any more time grieving when he is still here, thriving and living in his dog perfection. Grieving is for later. And even then, it will not permanently undo me. I know from my life experiences that while the passing of someone you love changes you permanently, devastation is NOT permanent. Sorrow’s sharp edges grow soft with time: jagged river rocks tossed smooth in the violent, soothing ocean.

I believe our non-human companions teach us, with their often painfully short lives here on earth, how to better accept and perhaps understand that death as just another part of living. I have loved dogs, cats and other creatures with all my heart and soul for my entire life and there is not one I do not mourn being separated from. Recently I decided that I am going to try and get my spiritual shit together so that when I die and move to the next place, I stand a better chance of being reunited with everyone I have loved, including the non-human ones, who served for me as examples on how to love unconditionally. I am CERTAIN that they will be in a most honorable place of eternal joy when they are done here, helping us humans try to be more like them. Though, my aquatic turtle Shelly, whom I suspect would eat me if she were big enough, may outlive us all. I’m going to have put stipulations in my will for her permanent care as I am currently the only one who loves her, my own attempt at unconditional love. But I’m pretty sure she loves me back, she’s just not wired for expressing it well.

With this I leave you with one last thought from another:

“Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.” -Pablo Neruda