Five weeks ago today, my little dog Snuffy was at death's door. I wrote this poem knowing the end was very near. Coming back to the breath, coming back to the present moment, helped me not get lost in grief. The Black Hole refers to an 'oft-told story' Long Beach Meditation's teacher, Victor Byrd, tells in his online book, The Bare Bones of the Buddha, http://www.longbeachmeditation.com/index.php/dharma_talks/online_book/
"about a guy walking down the street and falling into a hole:
Badly bruised, he climbs out of the hole and limps home. Tomorrow arrives: a new day, a new dawn! Out the door our friend walks as he or she heads down the street vaguely remembering that there is a hole somewhere along the way. He falls into the same hole!
Momentarily forgetting right speech, he climbs out of the hole and drags himself home, nursing his wounds. He vows never to fall into that hole again. Tomorrow comes: a new day, a new dawn! He heads down the street but this time he remembers exactly where that hole is. "I won't fall into that damn hole again," he mutters confidently to himself. Sure enough, this time he sees the hole up ahead and walks carefully around it. With a thud, he falls into the same hole! Crawling out, without even a semblance of right thought, he manages to limp home.
The next day, if he has a shred of good sense, he will take another route."
Falling In The Black Hole
by Alison Cameron
"…and then my dog is dying," I tossed out
Just yesterday to my therapist.
"And you feel…?" He made a note on his yellow legal pad.
"Oh fine." I shrugged. "It's sad. Just sad.
Nothing complicated."
Of course that was before I fell in the blackest of holes
The one stuffed with Death,
The one I've been trying so hard to climb out of today.
It's not surprising that Snuffy makes me think of Dad,
Because that was the passing that played out in my arms,
And here it is again, dressed in the body of my little dog.
Snuffy's ribs sticking out through thinning fur
Remind me of Dad's bones jutting through white skin.
They share absolute stillness, distant eyes.
That quality of time stopped.
Oh, this impending doggy death
On a morning in July in California
Recalls a wintry afternoon in England
Five years ago,
Sitting beside that other bedside
Watching a chest breathe.
Dad's end was so labored, my sister said, aghast,
"It makes you believe in euthanasia!"
So I've called the mobile vet, the one who roams the OC
Killing pets. Death on wheels.
She is performing a rare service,
But when she gets to the part about choosing
Communal cremation, or ashes in an urn,
I have to hang up.
Not so long ago,
my little dog was wearing a tutu,
Performing tricks at the school for the homeless.
Was indulging his one vice, eating paper,
Stealing Kleenex from my friends' purses
And paper napkins from our laps under the dinner table.
Was sitting up in the backseat of the car,
Tacking the corners like a sailor.
Was sneezing his delight over most everything.
"Sneezing is how dogs laugh," his doggy daycare told me.
He laughed a lot.
Snuffy was supposed to be my daughter's dog.
But when he got 'fixed' and whimpered in the dark
for his mother,
I took him to sleep on the sofa in the living room,
My arm gently around his tummy so he wouldn’t fall off,
Murmuring, "Hush, it's okay now" all night long.
We didn’t get much sleep, but we bonded.
And now I contemplate killing him.
This little animal who is wholly good.
Who lives only to please.
Yay! You're home! Rapture!
We're going for a walk? Yay!
We're staying home? Yay!
You're going someplace and I can wait in the car? Yay!
You're going to the bathroom?
I'll just stay by the door till you come out.
Where are we off to now? The kitchen?
I'll come with you.
Wherever you go, let me come with you.
So tell me, how do I kill this?
At least thoughts of Snuffy have pulled me away
From memories of Dad. The one is not the other.
I begin the climb out of the hole,
One death at a time.
I gather the crying child,
Who misses her Dad and her dog,
And cradle her now in strong mommy arms,
"It's okay," I tell myself. "Hush.
Snuffy is not Dad.
He is still here.
Go to him now.
Don't waste these last moments."
I lie down beside my little dog and tuck my arm
Gently around his tummy. I match my breath to his.
I cup his heart in my hand and press my nose into his back
As I have done so many times before.
We are calm; we are out of the hole.
For now, we breathe together.
For now, it's enough.
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