"The rule of the writer is not to say what we can say but what we are unable to say." --Anais Nin

I have tried for over five months to write about Bear. The truth is, I really don’t want to; I have simply been unable to. I don’t want to touch it, it's so much easier to go to bed night after night and forget that it’s true.  It seems, at times, a grief so overwhelming that every time I try to make the pain take shape, to help make some sense of it, I simply walk away from the computer before I even begin. It was not until I read the above quote that I was able to write a single word. For me, writing has always been about saying in written words what I cannot actually speak a word about, in any meaningful way. What is the point, indeed, otherwise?

It’s the New Year and for some reason, this spurs me on to continue to try. Maybe it’s because there is some distance between the day he left and the hopeful, new beginning that is January. Maybe it’s just the part of me that looks back, fingertips reaching, trying to touch him again, to not let the memories fade with time, to do my best to hold onto him.  It’s hard for some to understand the depth of grief that comes with losing a horse, a cherished companion, a trusted friend. In the grand scheme of things, most would likely not find it terribly relevant, the loss of a big, red horse with the satiny, shiny coat. They would likely struggle to understand the depths of my pain and the hole in my heart, in my paddock, in my life. Grief is, as I have said before, a very lonely thing, we feel so terribly alone.  Those who knew him also know he was a big horse with an even bigger heart, a heart of solid gold. I love all my horses but Bear I loved most of all. For a horse girl like me, who has always sought solace, freedom and happiness in horses, it’s a grief that can be very hard to adequately explain and even harder to endure. Those of us who love horses know the satisfaction of brushing a coat until it gleams, scrubbing a water bucket and filling it with fresh, clean water, the familiar sore ache of our legs after a good ride. The peacefulness that comes after spending a day at the barn, coming home tired, dirty and feeling like you've had a vacation. Horses have always had the ability to help drown out the countless voices in my head, the voices of others all around me... and fill it only with those things which are important. Riding is like an instant vacation, everything else fades away. I breathe. I smile. I relax.

My husband loved him too, but not in the same way I did. He is probably the closest person on the planet to actually understand how hard I grieve for him. He cried with me the day we let him go. He refused to cover his head with the blanket I handed him once he was gone, saying, tearfully, No, No, he’s sleeping, just sleeping. We both sat on the ground next to him, sobbing, laying a blanket over his back, hugging him, and telling him how much we loved him. How we always would. I will never forget that hour of my life. One minute he is there, living, breathing, following me, calling out to me in his agony, wanting me to help him. And oh, how I wish there was something I could have done to do just that, to change the final outcome. The next minute, he is gone, shockingly so, and I know, after this day, I will never see him again. At least, not waiting in my paddock, not during the morning chores, not on a sunny, warm day when I could bathe and ride him in the sun. It seems a truth too hard to believe. It is very hard to re-visit and so, I tell myself, just don’t think about it, you’ve got plenty to do today, just keep moving… But in the end, it doesn’t express my love for him either. It doesn’t tell his story or help me to sort through the painful memories or gently push me to let him go. And so…I will write. And of course, it Is painful. Every word, every memory. I don’t write a sentence without tears. But I want to tell his story. I still can’t speak about it easily, I don’t get very far, but I can write, as always, it is easier for me to express my pain in words.

 No matter how chaotic my day, or who said an unkind thing or how many times I got cut off on the freeway coming home, when I go out each night to let the horses out of their stalls it all fades away. Bear would always call out to me. Each and every time he saw me, dinner time or not. I think it is his voice I miss the most. When we first moved to our new place, I would go out to see the horses many times a night, just because I could. It felt so luxurious, so special, to be able to do that. It has been a dream come true to be able to drink my morning coffee and watch my horses out my window. I would stand there, alone in the dark with my hands warming under his mane and watch the stars. I would listen to the coyotes yip, hear the wind rustle the unfamiliar trees; breathe in the familiar, comforting scent of horse, my very favorite thing in the world since my earliest of childhood memories.  It was the same about a week before I lost him but I stayed out with him an extra-long time that night. Just him and me. I talked to him and told him what a good boy he was, how much I loved him and I knew, somehow, that things were about to change. He let me hold his head and stood motionless while I pet him and kissed him on the cheek. I thought about how it would feel to not have his presence in the paddock, how  different it would be. I wished then that I had spent more time caring for him, braiding his tail, teaching him tricks, going for walks in the park across the street. I wished for more time. I felt sad for being so busy all the time, for being so stressed, for forgetting in the frenzy that is life, that my horses were my sanity, my one place in the universe where I always felt  happy. There was stillness that night, an absolute quiet, a all-encompassing darkness. A million stars above. I felt heavy with grief, even then, I stood hugging him in the night and I stayed that way for quite a while, while he waited, patient as always and allowed me to do it. He hadn't been feeling well for quite awhile and although we were treating him as directed by our vet, I felt as if we were saying our goodbyes that night, acknowledging the inevitable. Somehow, I just knew.

My other two horses are silent, they are not talkers, like Bear.  For a day or two though, after he is gone, Arion calls for him, randomly, throughout the day.  Azula is silent but lifts her head at every car that comes up the road. They both stand in the corners of the paddock and look out as far as they can, ears forward, watching and waiting. I know they are wondering when he will return. They look in all directions, they call out again. After a few days, they seem to give up. It tears me up to see them look for him and even more when they eventually give up. I miss his voice, I desperately miss him.  I have to go down to the paddock each morning to feed and care for the other two horses and for a month I cried each time I did it. I had to steel myself, prepare and stop to take a deep breath before I walked out the door, knowing his empty stall would, once again,  be waiting. I placed flowers full of color in his feeder. I wouldn't let the horses go into his stall, I kept it closed off, empty, it was Bears stall only, no one else's, I didn't want anyone in there. I sat down in the sand first thing in the morning as the sun came up and cried. I didn't know what else to do. Somehow, it made me feel better to just sit where he lived. Sit and feel whatever part of him was still there. I cried a thousand tears that first month, sitting on the ground. I said prayers for peace and relief from loss; eyes closed, I soaked up the sun and thought about all of our great memories over the years, all of our great rides, his lameness successes and failures. I felt empty and hollowed. I put one foot in front of the other and tried to forget…

Bear was a gentle giant. He was a three quarters Quarter horse and one quarter Belgian draft. He came from a horse dealer; he was a gift to me from my husband when we first met  (a man who buys a horse lover a horse is a keeper). He had scars on his front fetlocks, I have no idea how they got there. Maybe he was roped and tripped in a charro rodeo, maybe he got caught in a fence, how they got there, we never knew, but they were deep, however he received them. It is likely one of the reasons he was never fully sound. He was a very lucky boy not to end up in the nightmarish slaughter pipeline. A lame, large horse is always at risk that way. Bear was the horse I got when I was about to give up horses all together. After my serious, drunk-driving car crash, I struggled with fear, I would freeze while riding, would have to sometimes get off and walk on the trail when I got too nervous, things I never worried about before. My friend had a horse, an older show horse named Country, who I rode for many years after the crash and who helped me get through much of the beginning stages of re-learning to ride. But when Country had to retire,  I contemplated giving up the horses; I felt I had lost my nerve. My body was too worried about getting hurt again and would not relax. Riding had always been my biggest pleasure, my most treasured activity, my obsession, I was devastated to even be considering it but I was so frustrated with myself. I just did not have the same confidence, I was changed. Bear was the first horse I felt absolutely safe on, always, no matter where we were. He kept me riding. Without him, it’s likely I never would have gotten on another horse for the rest of my life. When I rode him, I felt like the little girl who believed in the magic of riding, who knew horses cured all, who believed in all the good things of the world and none of the bad. He made me remember. We needed each other and somehow, the powers that be made it happen. I loved him and, as crazy as it might sound, he loved me. A friend once said to my husband, I've never seen a horse love someone like he does your wife. It startled me a bit, I asked her why she thought that, skeptical.  She said; he looks for you, waits for you, watches for you all day long, calls to you every time you come down the driveway, he does absolutely everything you ask him to do, even when he doesn't understand it. We had a deep and lasting bond, unusually so, special even in light of all the other great animals I have been privileged to know.

For a few years, I rode him on the trails at Hansen Dam, where I lived at the time.  We had great rides those Saturdays, so many wonderful trail rides through the streams and hills. Riding with my friend Linda, who has since moved away to Colorado. So many changes since then. On one memorable stormy day, I decided to walk him around the Equestrian Center. It had been raining heavily so the trails were muddy, too muddy to ride, I wanted him to stretch his legs. We walked along, enjoying the beautiful, cool day. As we went down one small hill, I realized the trail had washed away, leaving a single track pathway in it's place. Before I realized it, Bear started trotting ahead of me, I ended up running behind him since there was no room beside him for anyone on the trail. The weather was rainy, windy, even lightning was flashing across  the sky. I tried to keep up, but it was impossible, he pulled away from me and got loose. He began to trot faster and then canter down the wash. I ran after him, calling his name, he kept going for a little bit, then I yelled "Bear, you Stop this minute! Whoa!" Silly, I know, but I'll be damned if he didn't slow down, finally walk, then stopped. He turned back as if to say; Hurry Up!  and he stood and waited for me to catch up. My friend walking her own horse with us was incredulous; "He stopped?!?" Yes, he did, I walked up to him, picked up his lead rope and walked on. Such a good boy, most horses would have taken off running and bucking all the way home.

Over the years, he would sporadically become slightly lame, and then be fine. He was only four or five years old, so the vets who examined him never suspected anything serious or permanent. He was finally diagnosed with ringbone, a type of arthritis at around seven. Hence beginning ten years of treatments, potential cures, special shoeing, supplements, shock-wave treatments, chiropractors, specialty vets, pastures, disastrous, painful "barefoot" trims  and injections. Some of which helped for a little while. None which cured him or stopped the ringbone from progressing.

One of my attempts to help his ringbone came in the form of pulling his shoes and putting him out to pasture. My friend Eric trailered him up to Ojai. It was a beautiful place, 2,000 acres of rolling hills, green grass, running creeks. I felt like it was paradise for him. The only problem was, because he would be far out in the hills, the horses were only brought in once a month, so boarders could only visit the first Saturday of every month. I am amazed I ever agreed to that, but again, because I thought it was best for Bear, so I did it for him. When I left him in the paddock with the others and we started to drive away, he began to follow us along the fence. I would not have believed it if I had not been there. It was straight out of a Hallmark film, where those sappy scenes that never happen in real life are conjured up. As we picked up speed while driving away, he began to trot and then run to keep up, running along the fence line. He called out to me, keeping up with the truck as we drove away. I was incredulous and in tears. I felt terrible. It’s as if he knew it would not be a good place. He did not want me to leave him there. 

 

For a few months though, he loved it there. He thrived and did so well with his lameness. One day, during our monthly visits, while he was brought into the orchard, I slipped a halter on him and climbed up on him bareback. He hadn't been ridden in over a year and riding was strictly forbidden per my boarding contract. Especially in the presence of the other horses but no one was around and it was so tempting. He was perfect, as always, we walked and trotted around the orchard in and out between the other horses in the herd. It is one of my favorite memories. He befriended the most feeble of horses, protecting them from others so that they could eat. He learned to guard his water bucket and salt block. He grew shiny and healthy. But it was the year of El Nino and when Winter came,  many nights I lay awake knowing he didn't have shelter in the pouring rains out in the hills. He developed rain rot. He grew thinner. Each time I went I had to bring him supplemental hay. I wasn't sure what was going on as I couldn't get anyone to return my phone calls. I was told the ranch management had changed hands. Turns out they only had the horses on about 5 acres, instead of the 2,000 as promised, which they shared with cattle and they were not supplementing their hay. The last month I left him there he did the same thing as when I first left him, he ran after my car, he called out, his face was worried and tense. I made a frantic phone call to Eric to pick him up as soon as possible and move him, once again. The ASPCA removed the other horses. I felt I had failed him again.

He was moved so many times, he was actually the reason we bought our horse property, I did not want to move him ever again. I wanted him to come home. I wanted to make sure he had enough food, enough water, enough shelter. Through the years he had often not gotten enough of those things where he was boarded. One person told me he could only get two flakes of hay a day with the board I paid, even though he was 16.2 and a draft-cross. I paid for supplemental hay, but all the other horses ate it too.  In another barn, he slept on the hard ground, developing hock sores, because it was so windy it would blow away all of his shavings.  At another particular place, he was in pasture with five or so other horses. They picked on him mercilessly, and he had bites and scars all over his back. It was unusual as Bear was generally the horse "in charge". He almost ran me over once, in his attempt to desperately get away from them, knocking me down in the process. I went to the owner, horrified and she told me, Well, that’s just what horses do. He grew thin once again and was stressed. He followed me when I walked back up the hill to my car, anxious. I once again, made a frantic phone call (poor Eric) and had him moved. This time I brought Azula, my Camarillo White horse, with him. He had lost so many friends along the way, countless friends at different stables; he was moved and moved and moved. I promised him I would never take Azula away from him; she would always be his friend. And she was, til the day he died, they were inseparable.

About a year before he passed away, Bear was chosen for a photo shoot for Ralph Lauren. He worked through my friend Sarah’s company, Animal Saavy. They had requested a horse that the models could hold, walk, sit on. Bear was perfect for that, I knew he would be great. Then they called and requested another horse, a darker one. We decided to bring Arion, my Friesian-cross with us to Santa Inez for the shoot. All day before the horses were bathed, groomed and brushed until they shone. Up before the sun we trailered for hours towards Santa Barbara. Both horses rode beautifully and we arrived on time, driving over a rickety old bridge towards the ranch in the green hills. We waited for most of the day, allowing the horses to eat, walking them around a bit to acclimate them, ate lunch. Finally they were ready for them. We drove to a location on top of a hill, it was windy, cool. I remember thinking to myself, Oh this is gonna be fun, as the props blew around, I hope they behave. They weren't movie horses, after all, just my kids. I hadn't a worry about Bear, but Arion is young and hot-headed at times. They took a few pictures with Bear and the model under the tree, holding his leather halter. Bear was so quiet, despite the flags and flapping set dressing and new location. He pawed a bit when he had to stay still too long though, which made them  nervous for the model in the end. They took a lot of pictures of Arion and ultimately, ended up shooting a lot more pictures of him. The ad turned out beautifully and I was so proud of both of my boys. I never did see the pictures of Bear, since they were not chosen. I wonder if they are still out there somewhere. Arion got full page ads in People and fitness magazines.  That day will always live in my memories as one of the most satisfying days we all spent together. 

The morning we lost him started off as any other. I went out to feed just as the sun was coming up. As I got a few feet down the driveway, I realized Bear was standing in the middle of the paddock and not moving. His coat also seemed strangely different,  it seemed very dark from a distance.  Something didn't look right although it was still just barely breaking dawn. I struggled to try to see, I knew he was in trouble, I started running, I yelled his name. He called out to me. When I got to him, I realized he was covered in sweat from head to toe and that's why his coat looked so dark. His eyes were completely sunken in. He swayed as he was standing, he refused to move. I immediately turned and ran back into the house to call the vet, who, Thank God, lives only a few minutes away. As we were waiting for her, I ran back outside. Bear was standing in the same place as I left him. I put a halter on him, encouraged him to move forward, trying to get him out of the paddock away from the other horses in anticipation of the vet visit. Despite his pain, he walked forward as I asked him to, always a good boy, always trying his best to do what I asked of him. Tom came out while I was trying to get him to walk. I burst into tears the minute I saw him. He said, He’s going to be okay sweetie, I said, No, I don’t think so. Not this time. No.

He walked a few feet and I was able to get him out the stall door. He was shivering and wet so we covered him in a blanket. We waited. He moaned and tried to walk in circles. I kept talking to him, telling him he was going to be alright. It seemed like hours, but it was only about ten minutes. When the vet arrived, she got out of the truck and just stood there, she did not move closer.  She took one look at him and said; He needs to get to the hospital, we can’t help him here. I immediately said I would call my neighbor; see if she could transport him in her trailer. She said; Wait, wait, let me listen to his heart first, check his vitals. His gums were white, then blue. She listened to his heart, listened again and looked up and said; I'm sorry, he’s not going to make it to the hospital. It’s likely that he’s ruptured his intestine, if he hasn't, he’s about to. He’s not going to make it. He’s in a lot of pain. I stood motionless, unable to speak. I could hear only my own breathing, feel my heart pounding. Finally I said, NO. Please, is there anything we can do, we'll do it, anything. I don't care what it is, anything. She shook her head. No. She said she was so sorry. I knew it anyway, I knew it the minute I saw him. I hung my head and began, once again,  to cry. It all seemed so surreal. The day had come, I knew it was coming. It could not be happening. The morning was blooming all around us, the birds began to sing. I could not breathe. And my Bear was about to leave us forever.

.

Tom came over and began to cry as well. The sound of my husband crying is a sound I will never forget. We hugged each other and tried to stay strong. She readied the syringe, she waited while we said goodbye. I hugged him one last time,  struggling to hold it together. I kissed his face. Told him again how much we loved him. Dropped tears on his coat. I walked away as she gave the injection, I looked away when he fell, unwilling to have that be my last image of him but I heard him go down and then, immediately went to him. I sat down on the ground, wrapped my arms around his body and then sat with him for the next hour, sobbing inconsolably.  I cannot describe in words how it felt to sit with him that final time, despite my best efforts. Eventually, I leaned my head on his side and slept, exhausted. I awoke about a half an hour later. My husband was kneeling in the dirt on the other side of Bear, petting him, kissing him, also sobbing. I knew he was devastated too. I cried and cried and cried and said NO a thousand times until I was sick. Then I eventually got up, shaky and weak, kissed his nose one final time, said; goodbye angel, and walked up to the house. I was scheduled to go to work and it was late by then. I did not know what to do, I wandered around, I tried to breathe, I was shocked and devastated. Disbelieving. I did not want to be there when they picked him up. That’s all I kept thinking. I just can't be here when they pick him up. I got dressed and drove to work. It was a new job and I felt I could not call in sick so early in the game. I do not remember getting there, I do not remember driving. I walked straight into a meeting and sat down, stiff and silent. I tried to listen, to breathe, to be normal. Then, someone asked me a question. I looked at them, blinking, uncomprehending. I tried to answer and then blurted out; I just put my horse down this morning, I think I need to go home. There was stunned silence and then immediate words of sympathy, I don’t remember what was said exactly, I got up and ran out of the room. Thankfully I work at a place where people fully understand the bonds between people and their animal family members. I got in my car and drove around, no clear destination, only to end up back home late in the afternoon. I remember very little of that day, just shock and wandering. I remember posting this on Facebook; "It seems impossible to have to say this, but the best horse in the world is gone". Most days I simply still can't believe he is gone. And everyday, absolutely everyday, I wish it wasn't so.

It’s been five months since his death. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago. Some days it feels like a sharp pain in my stomach that reminds me, suddenly,  that he is gone. The grief catches up, nudges me, takes my breath away, despite my attempts to avoid it.  My house is not the same. My horse paddock is not the same. It feels like the heart of my group has gone. I am trying to get back my enthusiasm for riding, I am trying to put my grief away and turn my attention to my other horses. I am only mildly successful in my efforts. My beautiful farm, my patient and loving husband, my dogs who bring me such joy, they all keep me going and remind me that the world is a beautiful place. Grief is always the price we pay for love and this time is no exception. I had hoped to have Bear here for years to come. I had promised him he would never have to move again and I guess, at least, I did keep my promise. He came home. He slept on shavings and had as much food as he wanted and shelter when it rained. He had his friends who didn't move away and he passed away in the arms of people who loved him dearly. I guess it’s all any of us can hope for in the end. I miss my Bear man. How I miss him. Everyday. My heart is thoroughly broken. I will never forget him. And someday, I hope to see him, where no one can ever separate us again. I’ll see you then Moose, my sweet, beautiful boy, I’ll definitely see you then.

 "Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;

Warm western wind, blow softly here;

Green sod above, lie light, lie light-

Good-night, dear heart, good-night. 

(Robert Richardson)

Waiting for daddy to get home.

"Heartbreak is life educating us."

(George Bernard Shaw)

 I miss my old man. So much that some days I cannot stand the fact that he is really gone, simply cannot accept it. Which seems ridiculous, I realize, as we all know dogs do not live as long as they should. We all know someday they will leave us, always prematurely. My little pack, my  immediate four-legged family, so much a part of my life, so integral, so necessary. A part of me still expects to see him when I get home each day. Sleeping in his bed, greeting me at the door, jumping up and down for treats. 17 years is a very long time and an old dog by any standards. Still, it's not long enough, it's never long enough. My friend pointed out that it's the same amount of time as someone who's kid just graduated from High School. No wonder it doesn't seem real. A tiny black dog seems an insignificant thing in the whole scheme of things. The world is such a noisy, crazy, chaotic place so much of the time. Wars are fought, the stock market crashes and rebounds, the weather gets cold or unbearably hot. The seasons change, holidays come and go, commitments, vacations, regular work days. There are much bigger things to think about in the course of a day. 

I have often lost my way in the world, stumbled, wondered what would become of this choice or that, pondered big life decisions and stressed over little ones. The big things, like jobs and illness, money or trying to find your place, where you really belong, are a constant worry. I think it's exactly why he was so important. He brought only joy. Brought the focus back to what was important, made me relax, laugh and tell stories about him to anyone who would listen. Nothing complicated, nothing conflicted, only joy. He was a true mama's boy. Wherever I went, there he was. When I studied for law school, he slept under my desk until it was time for bed. If I was home sick and he curled up next to me for the whole day, cheering me up, making me feel peaceful even while being ill. Gentle, sweet boy. I would curl my fingers in his soft fur and sleep, feeling quite content. I watched my Kings finally win the final game of Stanley Cup and he sat next to me on the couch while I cheered. A constant, comforting presence, pure and simple love. No matter what the direction my life takes, the upheaval, the disappointments,  the uncertainties, I always steer my way back to what matters. My human family. My husband. My dogs. Is it any wonder I miss him so.

Dogs are my comfort.  They are also my happiness, my worry, sometimes my most important consideration. My dogs are not my "children", nor are they a substitute for children, as many people seem to think about those of us who do not have children, but love our dogs. As if, somehow, we are odd for doing both.  They are, on their own, an important life, a family member, a dedicated friend. Why is it that it is often harder to lose a dog then it might be an actual person? Is it because they love us unconditionally? Maybe because we live our lives intricately intertwined with them, we sleep with them, feed them everyday, take care of them when they don't feel well. They love us without agenda, even when we screw up or lose our patience with them. Or maybe it's because we are responsible for their well-being and ultimately, sometimes for the very  end of their lives, which always feels like such a betrayal. Why do we mourn them so? I was so heartbroken the first few nights that I cried until I couldn't breathe, the pain was so acute. One of those moments everyone has in their lives when the pain fine-tunes your senses, you feel raw and exposed and even the breeze on your face brings more pain. 

I don't buy into the argument that "people are more important". Never have. What does that mean exactly? More important than what? We are also animals, after all, human primates. I contend that love is love, period, we are always better for it, no matter what form it comes in. Dogs are so unselfish, they are relentlessly devoted, forgiving to a fault.  There is much in our relationship with dogs that simply is magical, no other explanation will suffice. Those who love dogs in this manner know exactly what I'm talking about, words cannot and will not explain it. Those who do not will never understand what I'm talking about and in the end, matters not to me a whit. I mourn him, I miss him, I wish he would come back, that I could see him again, that is the truth of my feelings at the moment. I have compassion for myself occasionally, in my brief moments of peace and acceptance. One cannot love deeply without feeling the other end of the spectrum, terrible grief is the price we pay when they leave us.

 So why exactly does  it feel like such a betrayal in the end? The feeling the day after reminded me of being young and in love and waking up the morning after the first big break-up, when you first hear the birds in the morning, and for a brief second your mind has not caught up and it still believes all is right with the world, then, it remembers with a crushing reality, it hurts with every breath, the world has  moved on, unchanged, and yet, for you, the universe has shifted and will never feel the same again. On some level you know (without fully accepting it) that your world is forever changed, you will never go back, you will never see him again and you simply cannot believe it. You walk around in a pain-filled fog, watching others go to dinner, laugh, wash their cars, go to the movies, it all seems changed but yet everything, unbelievably,  is the same. It is both a comfort and a travesty.

 I've been so alone without Tom here, the day after we lost Lucky, he went to Las Vegas to a wedding. I thought I would be fine, but I wasn't, not at all.  I cannot remember when I ever felt so lonely. The house is doubly silent, I turn the television on just to have some noise, every time I try to sleep, I'm besieged by thoughts of guilt,  wishing I could take it back, wanting him to just walk around the corner so I can pick him up and put him to bed and hoping, somehow,  he isn't angry with me. I cry and cry, until my eyes swell shut and I feel my stomach clench. I finally sleep a bit, exhausted and drained, clutching his collar because it makes me feel a little bit closer to him. I do whatever I can to find some comfort, whatever it takes to ease the pain.

He lived with me through three houses, a new marriage, an autoimmune disorder, a law degree. He slept beside me for over a decade, his loss makes the whole house feel empty and sad, diminished. We had only been here in our new house for less than two months, I am sad that he will not find a home here as we will, that he will not be part of it. I wish, briefly and perhaps irrationally, that for a minute we are all back in Chatsworth, together again. What is it about our dogs that causes such heartbreak in the end?  Is it actually just love, no matter how you look at it or the fact they are the only animal on earth innately bred to be our best friends? They trust us, plain and simple, their every happiness is wrapped up in us, they depend on our kindness, our responsibility, our love. Their care, their well-being, their happiness and, in the end, up to us to take away their suffering, to give them that last final gift of mercy.  

When we drive him to the vet the last day, he thinks he is going for a walk and does a brief bounce, grabbing at his leash, happy, even though he has been ill for months and just that morning, would not eat at all.   I knew it was coming. I carried him to his bed each night, laid down next to him and stroked his soft head  until he fell asleep. I cried the week up to his death as well, knowing the day  would be soon, looming large, and was unable to conceive it. We slept peacefully, briefly, both of us, on his thick dog bed that he got for Christmas, knowing we don't have much time left. I cannot fathom it and each night I push it away and tell myself I'll think about it tomorrow, all is well for tonight. The last few nights he doesn't sleep, he gets up and walks around, up and down the hallway, unable to get comfortable, aimlessly wandering. He has accidents in the bedroom, disoriented, clearly in some distress. I get up repeatedly, clean him up, put him back to bed, take him outside and stand in the darkness while he walks in circles, unable to do much to help him.

 In the end, he was having a good day, despite being down and so depressed in the morning that he wouldn't lift his head off the bed. He was happy in the afternoon, he walked fairly normal, no sideways, hunched over gait as he had been doing for months, no diarrhea, no bile vomiting.  I am glad for his relative pain-free day, but it doesn't make the inevitable any easier. Once at the vet, he becomes stressed, panting, trembling. I am wishing I had thought even further ahead and called a vet to do it in the comfort of his own home. I am bereft, inconsolable, I can barely explain to the vet what has been happening. He cries a little when they find the vein and I start to yell Stop! I've changed my mind!  Knowing how hard it will be in the days afterward, knowing how final this decision is. But no words come out, my mouth is ready to speak, but nothing is actually said. And then, it was over. My sweet old man was gone. Part of me wishes I had not seem the transition, that I could remember him happy and young and beautiful, but I cannot leave him alone without comfort, he deserves to have us there, despite how devastating it is. I kissed his head and told him how much I loved him, that I would see him again someday, that I was so sorry,  that I hope he forgives me. I sat with him for awhile, tears dripping into his fur, knowing this is the last time we will have together and then, have to run outside to get sick in the parking lot, leaving my poor husband to handle the paperwork. I've never been good at loss. Ever.

I have not been able to sleep much, I am up all night, the minute my head hits the pillow and it's dark, I cannot bear the emptiness and have to get up, pace, walk around, read, turn the light back on.  I move his bed away from his spot and then put it back again. I get up in the middle of the night and still try not to step on him. I continue to sleep with his collar and bits of his soft fur next to my bed and I wonder if others feel so lost and heartbroken when they lose a loved one. I think about how he was here and then suddenly, gone, and how I will never see him walk around my house or come to greet me again. And it is so hard to believe, I can feel my heart breaking with the loss. I think of him sleeping in the sun, the way he loved ice cubes in his water and his funny way of bouncing up and down on his front legs when he wanted you to throw his ball. He would play ball for hours, talking up a storm if you didn't throw it fast enough, running back and forth until the hair on his head would stand on end. How, in past few years, his hearing and his eyesight were failing and if you called him, he would walk in the other direction, not quite sure where you were calling him from, still trying to get to you. I cry until I fall asleep completely spent. And I wait for my broken heart to start healing.

 I continue to cry each day, the pain hovers right at the surface, I get up every morning and press on, hating to be alone, wishing someone would call to check on me, ask if I'm okay, let me cry. I don't call anyone either, I simply have no energy or desire to reach out whatsoever, what do I say that makes any sense? It is only my grief, and mine alone to bear. It is my baby who is gone, even when others who try their best to comfort but have never even met him, hug me, give me cards and condolences, say they understand. There is no hiding from it, no wishing it away. I question myself and wonder if he still had more life in him, if I acted too soon,  I cannot change it now and I desperately hope I did the right thing, tortured with doubt and regret. Which I realize doesn't help anything but I cannot seem to stop the thoughts. The vet said I needed to be ready, to come back when he was having a "bad day" if I needed to make peace with it. I'm thinking she was right, I should have done that, because now, in those first few days, I cannot find that peace, only pain and guilt. Even while knowing on some level there is no perfect time, friends tell me stories of making the decision too late, how horrible they felt and still feel, about waiting too long, allowing their babies to suffer so they wouldn't have to be sad.

Lucky at 7.

Why does losing him feel like such a terrible blow? I literally can barely function, wiped out with exhaustion and grief. Perhaps it's because I'm 52 and wondering where in the world I fit in. Who is friend or foe, what makes my life important and relevant. Am I still relevant at all? Was I ever? Feeling vulnerable, unsure, having lost much confidence. In the past two years I have had so many changes. I lost a job, moved, stopped playing hockey, almost lost a horse to colic, watched him go through major surgery,  got a new job. To lose a job in such an ungracious way, abruptly and without warning or cause, watching others left in the same position with far less experience, passion, dedication, trying to make sense of it when there is no sense to be found. Wondering why I have worked so hard, studied so hard, given everything I had, only to be back where I started, starting over. Struggling with my weight, something I never had to do for over 30 years. Deciding whether or not to tackle the Bar Exam again, giving myself time enough to actually study and succeed and fulfill a dream of working in Animal Law. I am mostly unanswered questions these days, instead of answers. But one thing I always knew, I loved him. as I love all my dogs.

Maybe all of these reasons are why it's so hard. Why the loss seems even bigger, more crushing. Because life is about love and loss, acceptance of the inevitability of death, of pain from all kinds of loss, and all loss hurts. Each one, big or small, accumulates and, like a snowball gathering speed,  gets bigger and bigger as they go along down the road, never really being healed, adding to the pain with each new loss all the others that have gone before. All our doubts and fears, disappointments, insecurities wrapped up together. Still, I would have it no other way, I am a lover of dogs and I will not live without them. One little dog is gone, but I loved him, this is what I know is true.  Rest in peace baby, I'll see you again someday and we will both run together in the grass, free of sickness, fear or loneliness. You came home today, and will now live with the others above the fireplace, where you can still be with your mama for the rest of my days. I love you Lucky Luck. I always will. 

"Death ends a life, not a relationship." (Jack Lemmon)

All three of my dogs when they were young. Lucas is only about 5 months old.

soundexp.org

A Sound Experience (2000)

    " I'd rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on earth"
  Steve McQueen

     The whales never did show up. I waited, watched, waited. Talked to everyone I could, followed the State Park Rangers, asked the captains who ran the whale watch boats, the Whale Museum Staff, the locals. I volunteered to do extra shifts at Anchor Watch on our ship at midnight just in case the whales came. Everywhere I looked I saw orcas, painted on walls, on coffee mugs, T-shirts, in the ever-present art galleries. The San Juan Islands are famous for their resident whale pods, yet, in the month of August, they are nowhere to be found. Caught in a complicated web of politics, Native American tribal rights, commercial fishing interest and salmon farming, the whales were in search of food and salmon was scarce. It seems my luck holds true, even 1,000 miles away...

     Deciding to be a volunteer Environmental Educator and Deckhand on the "Adventuress" was an easy choice. Beautiful islands, calm seas, lots of wildlife and a chance to learn to sail an 100 year old schooner in the San Juans were some of the reasons I found myself on a plane to Seattle. I have had virtually no sailing experience but I learned so much and felt extremely proud of what I accomplished while I was there. By the end of week 5, I was tying maritime knots and singing sailor songs right along with the best of them. The weather was perfect, 60-70's during the day, 40-50's at night, cool and green with cedar-scented air. There were a few days of rain, but rain gear in the Pacific Northwest is plentiful and easy to come by. As a keeper at the Zoo for almost 16 years, I believe strongly that it is beneficial to see how "the rest of the world does it", get out there, volunteer in other places with other organizations, see wildlife and how they are managed all over the world. I guarantee you'll come back a better person for it.

     Sound Experience is a non-profit organization that teaches teamwork, respect for the environment and ecology of of the San Juan Islands on the "Adventuress", an actual historic landmark. Her crew is made up of a ragtag bunch of boat bums, professional Captains and first mates, professional teachers and volunteers such as myself (who fell somewhere in between professionals and boat bums). The trips are three to seven days and the groups varied in diversity and ages. In the month of August, we hosted girl scout troops, Elderhostels, Sierra Club and Whale Museum members.

     A typical day consisted of breakfast at 7;00am, classes until 9;00, chores, raising the sails, sailing to various Ports and around the islands (if there was wind), maybe an afternoon hike, lunch, an afternoon class, anchoring the boat, climbing the rigging, taking the little boat out to explore the shorelines, dinner and evening program. As a volunteer I did everything from scrubbing the decks to cleaning the heads, I even spent a week as the galley coordinator, making meals for 36 people for five days! I tried to protest, rather vehemently, that I was the wrong person for the job but to no avail and I actually learned to cook homemade breads, desserts, spinach lasagna and soups in that tiny kitchen! The food was all vegetarian and the galley consisted of a large diesel-powered stove named "Sadie" who was extremely temperamental and had to be cajoled and appeased each time she was fired  up to cook the meal just right. Other skills I learned while cooking in the galley: how to keep the soup pots on the stove while the boat was keeling over int he strong winds, listening to the words of "readyabout!" from the deckhands and keeping coffee, tea and snacks available at all times for hungry/tired/cold participants. Cooking in my own kitchen now lacks drama and challenge but at least the pots stay on the stove.

     Other duties of mine included; teaching Marine Mammals of Pugent Sound, Water Quality and Plankton classes, dressing up in silly costumes for evening programs, even picking up my guitar for the first time in 10 years and and actually singing in front of people! A captive audience with no access to television, radio, computers or movie theaters are actually grateful to talk to each other and sing songs together! The boat had anywhere from 10-36 people aboard at all times so you definitely got to know each other well, patience and flexibility were the most sought-after traits in a volunteer sailor. One of my favorite activities was Anchor Watch. Each night the boat would anchor in a different harbor and around the clock someone was responsible for keeping an eye on her, making sure we didn't drift too close to another vessel, reading our bearings on the compass and checking bilges for water levels (all wooden boats leak a little, just as long as it wasn't past the "call the mate" line). It was unearthly quiet (my favorite sound) on deck at night, except for the occasional sounds of seals splashing through the darkness, the stars and meteor showers were so bright and thick you thought you were actually in the middle of the universe. Bioluminescense shimmered in the water at night and sometimes we saw thousands of shrimp drift by, eyes glowing and tails swishing, clicking their "claws" as they passed under the ship!

     The "Adventuress" would dock mostly in Friday Harbor between trips and that port become home to us. We would come in each week and take hot showers (ah the luxury of it!), buy ice cream and spend the evening at Herbs Tavern singing risque songs too loud, finally coming back to the ship to get ready for another trip out the next day. Friday Harbor is one of the most popular ports in the San Juans and is home to Wolf Hollow Wildlife Rehab Center, the main offices of Sea Shepherd and the very popular Whale Museum. Summertime finds it crawling with "yachties" (worse than vermin to real sailors) and sometimes the boat traffic made the ports look a little like the LA freeways. San Juan Island actually boasts the only Whale Watch Park (Lime Kiln Park) in the world, on the west side bordering the waterway of Haro Straight, famous for it's popularity with the whales. I went there each Friday in hopes of spotting the orcas, to no avail, although the cab driver who took me there one evening said he used to go with his family to watch the whales but that it soon got "boring". He then asked "am I making you feel worse?" He was.

     Wildlife in the San Juans is plentiful. Harbor porpoise, Dalls Porpoise, River otters (who actually live on the seashore!), Minke whales, and Harbor seals are all quite common. Of course, the orcas are who everyone wants to see, including me and there are a total of 84 animals in the Southern Resident group, consisting of three separate pods (J, K and L). Usually their range consists of about 150 miles of the San Juan Islands but due to lack of salmon, the Southern residents have ventured all the way up to Tofino in Canadian waters. This particular group of whales was just put on the Threatened Species list. Although killer whales are the most widely distributed mammal on earth (besides the ever prolific man), and are not endangered as a species, this group has become alarmingly reduced in numbers in the last thirty years due to many different factors: PCB's (coolants and lubricants), lack of salmon, capture and other pollution factors. In the late 1960's 54 whales from the Southern  resident pods were captured or died in the process of capture for marine parks and aquariums around the world. Most of the whales you now see in these parks either came from these waters or were descendants of these whales. There are some organized movements to return some of these particular whales to their respective pods, which would technically be possible since each pod has a distinct dialect and can be identified by their perspective language. Whether it would work or not in reality if another story altogether. People do love whales and they love to see them up-close. Before you condemn the parks and aquariums, consider this: the "Save the Whales" movement did not begin until people began to see the intelligence, sensitivity and close family bonds these complex animals are capable of, thus sinking whaling ships became the highest of missions. Those ambassador whales have indeed done their job well.

     This particular group is, unfortunately, the most highly toxic (and most highly watched) whales in the world. Opinions vary greatly, but in general, it is felt that the whale watching operations do not significantly stress or disrupt the whales in the way of feeding, mating or usual daily routines. Non-point pollution sources; SUV's, construction site run-off, illegal logging practices and pesticides, are responsible for 60% of all pollution in the Puget Sound. In general, the people of Washington are quite responsible environmentally and are very cooperative with recycling, reduce and reuse routines. It was great to be surrounded by people who mostly had very few material possessions, knew a lot about local environmental issues and realized acutely that every decision they made had an effect on their environment. Most were either seeking or involved in careers in Environmental education, Biology or Sustained Resource practices and were passionate about teaching these values to our participants.

     Although the orcas were missing in action, we did see Minke whales, which are the smallest of the Baleen Whales. They are quite shy and do not seek attention like the Grays or Killers often do. Humpbacks and Grays are also seen in the San Juans during their annual migrations and the occasional transient orca is also seen. Transient whales are the marine mammal eating types that tend t o spend more time offshore and have a much larger range than the Resident whales. A third type has recently been discovered and are called Offshores. These whales seem to have characteristics of both the resident and transient types. We would sometimes have visitors on the boat, whale researcher Peter Fromm was a favorite for dinner. He would show up in his sailboat "Awilla" and then paddle over to show slides of whales and talk until midnight about his adventures.

     The day after I left the boat (with tears and hugs and promises to stay in touch), I took the bus into Seattle and spent two days in the city checking out the Aquarium, which is pretty small but they do have Sea otters and Northern Fur Seals, while trying to adjust to my life back on land (noisy, bright, moves too fast, sways a lot...). I settled into Starbucks to read the paper and there on the front page were the headlines "Whales Return to the San Juans". I had missed them by One Day. I let out a scream right there at my table and then began to laugh. It seems I can add another story to my list (what/? You spent six weeks in the San Juans and didn't see any orcas?!) While I was gone my hockey team won their first league championship (not because I was gone I hope) and my sister returned from India, she always wanted to climb Mount Everest and had at least wanted to get to Base Camp but was told she couldn't even get within fifty miles of Everest due to storms. Such is life. I wouldn't trade the memories of the time I had on that boat for anything and I came back having learned a lot about local wildlife, my fellow shipmates and myself. The whales will be there next time, I just know it...

"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and 

the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white

sails shaking.

And a gray mist on the sea's face and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy

life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife.

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover.

And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long 

trip's over.

(John Masefield)

Footprints in the Snow

 Just after 3'o clock on a Tuesday, I unlock the door to my patio. Tired from working all day as an animal keeper at the local zoo--a job I have held for 15 years, I am eager to be home, always happy to see my babies. My dogs are silent as I drive into the garage. There is no scratching on the door, no whining, no excited mom's home barking. I feel a touch of unexplained anxiety as I put my key in the door.

 I open the door and see him almost immediately. He is lying as if asleep, but I know instantly, that he is not. It is Luc, lying very still, with his head tucked under and his nose resting on his front legs. Suddenly, the universe shifts just a little bit and the warm, pleasant afternoon comes crashing to a halt and I know, without a doubt, that he is dead. I drop everything in my arms, my books, my purse and my coffee cup, where it shatters onto the patio in a million pieces. I can hear my own voice, sounding as if it belongs to somebody else talking from far, far away screaming "oh no, no, no!" over and over again. I pick him up and start to walk in circles, wondering what to do, trying to understand what has happened, unable to make any sense out of it. He was doing so well, he was fine this morning when I left him, he lifted up his ears and wagged his helicopter tail as I said goodbye and closed the door...

Finally, after what seems like hours, but I know has only been minutes, I wrap him in a blanket and sit down holding him on the stairs. My other little dog Pagan, comes over and touches him with her nose very gently and then she sits next to me, quiet, solemn. I hold Luc gently and rock back and forth while the tears come. I hold him and rock and weep.

 My father comes to the door and knocks to come in. I have fallen asleep on the stairs holding Luc and he uses his key to let himself in when I don't answer. He sits silently for awhile next to me, while I shake my head and continue to cry, unable to say a word. Finally he says, what do I want to do?

          "About what" I say...I can't understand what he's asking.
            Where would I like to take Luc? he says.
          "Okay", I say, resigned and exhausted. "Okay". "I know where, can you please drive?"

I hold Luc on my lap in the car. The freeway is a parking lot, barely moving and the rain is coming down hard and I cannot believe what has happened to this normal, everyday day. At the specialty hospital where he was being treated for his cancer; the technicians, the receptionists and the doctors keep coming into the room to say how sorry they are. He was such a sweet, little soul. Yes, yes he was I reply, and kiss him on the top of his head to say good-bye one last time as they take his body away to be cremated. I hold onto him as long as I can, saying just a few more minutes please, knowing I will never see him again. His doctor finally  says, "It's better this way. He never had a bad day; we should all be so lucky.." I blink and try to reconcile his words, and say Lucky? He was only ten years old. For all ten of those years he has been with me; through broken hearts, earthquakes, bad colds and indecision. He loved me everyday, despite my all too human shortcomings. He walked with me, slept in my bed, made me laugh everyday his joyful way of living, encouraged me to get up in the mornings... Even the best of human friends cannot be there for you like that.

On the way home, I try not to think about how different the house will be, how quiet, how empty and I cannot conceive of it. I cry once again all the way home, arms and lap empty. I pick up the phone a few days later, my heart heavy and tell my friend Tami that I can't go with her to watch the wolves in Yellowstone. I'm so sorry, I say, I know we've planned this trip for months but I don't even know what day this is and I certainly don't feel like traveling anywhere.

     My friend says, "Go! Wolves and pine trees and snow will make you feel better."
     My mom says, "Go! You need to get out of that house. Stop staring at the walls. Stop crying for a little  while.."
     My sister says, "Go. You've been looking forward to this trip for so long, I know Luc is gone but life is still beautiful. Remember those things that you love."

I pack my bags without enthusiasm, bringing everything I have that's warm, forgetting my binoculars, my pillow, my snowshoes, but remembering to bring my journal and my last picture of Luc. On the plane, I am numb, feeling like a stranger in my own body, still filled with shock and grief. Our plane ride is very rough and full of turbulence. I close my eyes and hold the hand of the stranger next to me, we are both afraid, we have resigned ourselves  to whatever might happen and I am both relieved and surprised at the simplicity of that kind of acceptance.

The beauty of Montana is hard to describe in words. Even through the darkness of night from the safety of our rented car, we can see millions of stars up in the sky, with no city lights to dull them. I have a slight moment of panic, what am I doing here? And then, suddenly, I am glad I came. Excited to see the wolves, grateful to be in a place with clear air and clear, rushing water. The wildness of the land reaches right in and wakes you up, forces you to pay attention. It makes you feel alive and strong, it sweeps right out of you whatever isn't really important and puts you up close and personal with all the things that are--like grizzly bears, snow-capped mountains and spouting geysers.

The wolves are most active from 6am to 11am, so we set our alarms for 4am and get our clothes ready to just slip into, to be ready to go first thing. Tomorrow we meet Kevin, our own personal naturalist for a few days, he will help us to locate the wolves. I fall asleep rather easily and dream of wolves, silent shadows, elusive, intoxicating, the ultimate symbol of wilderness and beauty.

As the days pass, I feel it has been a very good thing that I have come. A good thing to be someone else for a week, busy and occupied in eating good meals, sleeping well, focused only on finding wolves. We learn to live in the rhythm of Yellowstone, up with the sun (or before), sleep in the afternoons and stay awake and aware in the twilight. We form small caravans, the "wolf-watchers", climbing in and out of our cars, setting up scopes, pouring coffee from a thermos, warming our hands with the cars blasting vents. The biologists have radios and we learn to discretely listen in trying to figure out where the wolf action is for the day. We see wolves, yes, playing with mice, chasing elk, but we also see eagles, coyotes, otter and bison. We breathe in the air that smells of snow and we hike the hillsides in search of tracks or kills.

One evening, we hike through the deep snow to the lake. The woods are pitch black and still and the temperature is 12 below zero. Light snowflakes fall from the sky and dust our hair and our clothes. The trail is rutted and full of deep snowdrifts and I keep falling into every one of them, exhausted. We cannot use our flashlight for fear of scaring off the wolves. Huffing and puffing we finally reach the lake and we begin to take turns howling, hoping for an answer. At first, nothing...and then, after endless, empty minutes, we hear them, from far across the lake, the wolves answer back. They howl one by one, until the whole pack joins in. The hair on the back of my arms stands straight up and I whisper "My God", to no one in particular...

Standing on the edge of that lake, I know this trip was the best thing I could have done for myself. As we walk back to the car in the moonlight, I glance back and see my own footprints, mingled with the wolf tracks fresh on the trail. I know right then that I will always find ways to watch the wolves again, no matter where or what my life might bring to me. I realize that my love for Luc and my love of all animals are intertwined and always kept deep within my heart, accessible and necessary, reminding me of all that is real and good in the world.

It is our last night; I go home tomorrow. I have done well this week, my loss feeling far away at times, crying only once while staring out at the trees, alone in the car, overcome with the finality of death. I know Luc's ashes will be waiting for me at home, for they have been picked up by my family while I was away. I did not want him to sit on a shelf somewhere, as if he was unloved. I do not know how it will feel to see him confined in that box, to see him that way, a once vital, shiny and playful boy. Grief is personal, private. Ours alone to feel. No one else can carry that pain for me. It is mine alone. I can talk about him (and all of my heartbreaks) with friends and that helps, but each night I know it is only me who loved him and only me that feels his loss so desperately. At 3am  it is only my memories of him and his now forever absence from my life, only me that feels it.

Months later, I receive a call from a friend of mine who works at a local veterinary clinic. Someone came in today and needed to find a home for a longhaired, black and tan Dachshund. Would I be interested in him? I hesitate, wondering if it is a little too soon, but of course, I cannot resist meeting him. My dog Pagan is lonely, she was give to me many years ago after a serious car crash, she was my first Doxie and she too, misses Luc, refusing to sleep in the bed with me since his death, preferring to sleep alone outside on the patio.

Lucky is tiny and adorable. He immediately goes to get his ball for me to throw for him, he bounces up and down on his front feet until I do. Then, as he brings it back to me and sits up on his hind legs, barking, I am enchanted and take him home with me that very same day. We all know, of course, that our dogs will not live long enough, unfair as it may be and that someday, they will break our hearts, but we cannot say no, just the same.

At home, he follows me everywhere and falls asleep instantly when I rub his tummy, already filling up that hole in my heart. He reminds me that there is plenty of love to be had in this world and although sometimes it can be painful, it is always worth the price. I'm sure Luc would agree and most certainly, approve.

~ Jami (written in the late 90's)



    

Hockey Matters.

Hockey matters. It does. Today, in Los Angeles, it matters more than ever. As the Kings close in on their first ever Stanley Cup, so many thoughts and emotions are swirling around in my ever hopeful mind. For those who love hockey, the feelings of euphoria and collective happiness make sense, to those who don't know a blue line from a blue ox, they are mystified (and sometimes annoyed) by the hype. I think about all the ways hockey has mattered to me over the years. Why does one love something? Not easily described or explained, love is a word that is amorphous, it is felt rather than described. The whole purpose of a blog, in my opinion, is to say things in a way that people can relate to, to conjure up feelings of yeah, I get that. It's a bit pretentious, I admit, which is why I resisted the blog bug for so long, among other reasons. Challenging to put down into words feelings that don't always have descriptions attached. Writing about hockey is one such challenge. Since I can't think of much else today, I'm gonna do my best and write about why I love hockey anyway...

My family is hockey crazy. No, they weren't born in Minnesota or Canada, most have been born and raised right here in sunny, hot (very little ice to be found) California. My niece went to hockey camp when she was nine, she was the only girl in her session, she got dressed in the women's bathroom, skipping the locker room full of boys. My nephews both played and still do. Both my sisters are rabid Kings fans. My brother and I recently attended a baby shower and probably annoyed those around us talking about nothing but hockey.  My parents had season seats to the Kings for 17 years, most of those years when they played at the Great Western Forum. For us, it's a family affair. I started playing hockey at around 40. Had been to hundreds of games before I decided to give it a try myself. The U.S. Women's hockey team were finally going to participate in the Winter Olympics and women's hockey leagues exploded onto the scene. My best friend Stacy and I decided to try it for ourselves. I am not an athlete, I did not play sports in high school, college or ever, for that matter. Unless it involved horses I was not interested in competition either. Still not, in some respects, I play hockey for mostly other reasons, much to the chagrin of some of my teammates, I think.

Hockey is a primal sport. It's fast, it's exciting, it takes a ton of skill to play well and I'm constantly amazed by the toughness of those who play, particularly in the NHL. The skating ability needed to play at that level is beyond crazy.  Hockey players are the last real men in sports today, IMHO. They don't boo-hoo when they get hurt, they pack that broken nose with gauze and continue to finish the game, they stitch up that 25 suture cut and come back out on the ice to play again. They still lose their teeth on a regular basis and they hug each other after each and every goal. How much do I love that? Hockey fans are a different breed as well. They do not tolerate rubber balls bouncing around the stands, they do not need cheerleaders to elicit cheers (most of the women I know and some of the men, hate the 18 year old Ice Girls in their tiny tops, feeling it demeans the game and isn't necessary) they know the game and will quickly call out someone who stands up in their row while play is still going on. They're a serious bunch. My mom knows more about hockey then most people I know. She can tell you who was traded for who, what year each team won the Cup, who the coaches are, what this player said about that one. We've all said we're gonna cry at the end of the this championship season, if the Kings win or if they lose, either way, there's going to be tears. Hockey matters to us, in a big, although often unexplainable, way.

Over the past ten years I myself have won championships, lost them, traveled to play in different states, went to hockey camp in Banff, met amazing women, formed lifelong friendships, cried some, watched friends break bones and felt feelings of frustration for not "being better". I love the smell of the ice, the sound of the puck hitting the boards and the concentration it demands. I've contemplated being too old to play and worried consistently about my poor tailbone that still hurts four months after falling (extremely hard) on it when someone took my feet out from under me during a game. Every time I seriously consider stopping, I get too depressed to get out of bed, despite all those things I just mentioned. So, I still play. I will never be a great athlete, I will never be the team savior, but I do the best I can most of the time and that's enough for me. I've accepted that and play for the fun, exercise and challenge. After a game I feel lighter, more settled, more relaxed, ready to take on another work week. For an hour I think of nothing else, it takes me out of my own head, where I desperately need to go and exercises my body to it's 51 year old limits. I've had concussions, bumps and bruises, and the occasional whip lashed sore neck, but no more injuries than 40 years of riding horses has brought me. Yes, I worry about being more seriously injured, I've seen terrible breaks over the years by those playing in my league, but I play for the same reason I ride motorcycles or ride horses, because it makes me feel good. Because it's so much fun. I worry more about not living, being too afraid to do anything but watch by the sidelines.

I went to both games when the Kings made their first Stanley Cup run, in 1993. I watched Gretzky break the record for the most points ever scored by a hockey player. I was there when Luc Robitaille broke the record for most points by a left-winger and I was there (and cried) the night he retired. He was always my favorite and I still miss watching him play. He also was my inspiration, he wasn't a pretty skater (even our beloved Bob Miller would tease him during shoot-outs), he didn't have a mad slap shot, but he had so much heart and willingness to get pummeled again and again in front of the net, he seemed to pop right back up again, rarely ruffled. I've been part of the collective roar in Staples Center this playoff run, stood on my chair, cheered my team as they won game after game, series after series, watching incredulous, after so many years of not even making the playoffs. I participated in many Skate With the Kings, Tip A King and Frozen Fury season openers in Vegas. I even had my wedding shower in a suite at Staples Center in the middle of a Kings game. I wore my favorite jersey and a wedding veil. My hockey girlfriends thought it was the best shower ever and my horsey girlfriends probably thought it was an odd choice. My cake had two hockey players on it and was designed in black and purple Kings colors. I have talked hockey with many a stranger in the supermarket, at the vet's office or on a street corner. I have a jersey signed by the entire team that went to the Stanley Cup in '93, a book signed by Gretzky and a picture of me and Luc that I adore from 20 years ago. My sisters and I have pics of ourselves with various Kings over the years, we love to pull those old pics out and talk about remember when.  This is why hockey matters to me, it is memories shared with others over twenty five years. Memories of a thousand games, a million cheers and a few tears. Memories that sustain me through more difficult times of uncertainty. Memories that make it all better when nothing else seems to be going right.


Soon after my near fatal car crash in 1989 I went to a Kings playoff game. I still had my tracheotomy and my jaws wired shut. I got lots of stares but I remember walking the "loop" at the Forum feeling relief, feeling happy and inspired. I remember wanting to go to that game so bad, just to have my life feel normal again. Wanting to be part of it, relieved to still be around and able to walk among 19,000 other people, dressed in my favorite Kings jersey. That game mattered, I still remember those feelings as if it were yesterday. My friend Amy describes it this way "We've felt that sense of belonging to a diverse tribe bound by a common goal, we've suffered through long winters of discontent. At times, we've drawn everything from solace to salvation from the eternal spring of hope that comes from looking beyond ourselves and putting our hearts into a team from year to year, win or lose. From talking in terms of "we" and not "they", I step back sometimes and think how crazy it is to invest in a group of people playing a game, but for me a big part of it is connection". Yes, it's always about connection; to others, to having fun, to living a worthwhile life. Like my Dwight Yoakam music and my horses,  hockey has been a consistent source of happiness for me over the years. The Kings did not win the Cup last night, but I believe that they will. And when they do, it will bring an incredible energy,  a collective happiness, it will be a fitting tribute to 25 years of connection in my life and I will be among the happiest of all. Because hockey matters. It does.