Goodbye golden girl

On January 4th our golden retriever Sasha died while we were staying with Jen's family on the farm. She would have been seven years old this year. Even within her breed, she was an unusually good-natured and placid dog. She was also timid to the point of cowardice -- she would run away from sheep at the same time as they were running away from her. Most of all she was Jen's dog, long desired, and the recipient of hours of training, love and attention. So Sasha too carried the mark of love, in this case Jen's continuing love for animals. In her death we have lost another of our links to Jen.


It was a pointless and unnecessary way to go. Although we didn't know it, Sasha found something on the farm that she chewed up and swallowed. The object caused perforations in the walls of the bowel, so that she developed a massive infection. By the time the vet operated to see what was wrong, it was too late to save her. Although we had some days of concern, including two while the vet had her under observation, her death felt very sudden, with not any time to say goodbye.


So there's been another shadow of grief over the start of the year. All three of us were sad and angry in our own ways. There were the inevitable hypotheticals - what if we'd stayed in Melbourne for Christmas? If we'd paid more attention to what she was doing? If we'd taken her to the vet earlier, or if we'd persuaded the vet to intervene earlier? There was also the sense of anger at ill-luck, if that's what it was. In a small way I was glad that Jen wasn't around, for she would have been much more heart-broken that any of us.

I also experienced again how one grief echoes and awakens another. The moment when I gathered the boys to tell them the news from the vet was eerily like the terrible moment of telling them about Jen's death. I gave them the option of seeing Sasha under anaesthetic (before she was put down) or seeing her body, neither of which they wanted. After some consideration of the options, we buried her on the farm. Even the time digging the hole with a shovel was for me a way to show the significance of her passing and express my sorrow and regret. After lowering in her body, wrapped in a cotton sack (which took two people, since she weighed 30 kg), we shoveled the dirt back on top. Then we stood together to reflect, pray and give thanks for her life.



The connectedness of grief has made it both harder and easier. It's harder because the importance of Sasha's death is amplified by Jen's earlier death, and the wounds reopen. It's easier in a small way because grief feels familiar, both a friend and an enemy. I recognise the anger, the love and the sadness. I know too that it will pass eventually, though that could take a long time. Yet I'm reminded of the essential fragility of all life, that we are skating on the surface of the void, and my view of the world is shaken again.

If you're not a dog lover you might be mystified by the grief. People die every day and I don't know or worry about most of them, so why concern myself with an animal? If you've read this blog over time, you'll appreciate the connection of grief to love. We loved Sasha, in her enthusiasm and affection and loyalty, and so we miss her. She was an important member of the household, greeting every return home and observing every movement across the room (in case it heralded an outing for her). When Secundus came home from school she would go out in the backyard with him while he played. For him particularly, Sasha's life covers all the time he remembers, and even for Primus it's almost half of his life. Every evening when finally I sat down, Sasha would find her way in beside my chair and wait to be patted. There's a hole in everything.

In grief there are often terrible blessings, advantages that one would happily forego. So without Sasha there is one less responsibility for me in the household, fewer complications when travelling, and less dog hair on the floors. Without Jen there are some simplifications to my life, some decisions that are easier to make, some compromises I don't have to endure. I'd give them all up in a moment to have Jen back, yet they are part of the texture of this new life, and so I must learn to appreciate them too.