Bounce's Yahrzeit

Bounce and Miki

 Sometime in the early 1950s I found myself in Temple Beth Israel, the synagogue in my home town of Winsted, Connecticut.  I can't remember how or why I got there; possibly it was the time our youth group at the First Church, which was directly across the street from the synagogue, got invited to services in a move to bridge the space between our religious faiths - my home town was good that way.

What I do remember is that at some point in the service a man got up to speak of his father.  It was his father's "yahrzeit" I learned, the anniversary of his death. It was the moment, if I were to pick one, when my lifelong respect, not just for things Jewish but for the Jewish religion in particular, began.  A profoundly human community thing to do, to stop for a moment and give an individual a chance to speak publicly of the grief they felt over the loss of a loved one.

I know there are people who see my assertion that one can love an animal as fiercely as one can a fellow human being as disrespectful, somehow.  Even folly.  But I have lived these last 365 days in sadness since we took the life of my beloved canine daughter, Bounce, because she had a growth in her belly and, at age fourteen, the pain and confusion of an operation, I decided, would take her too far below the quality of life line to justify keeping her alive. 

It's one thing to define dilemma as a philosophical concept. It's quite another to feel it in your bones. I had long since recognized that the capacity to love and care for another was actually more important to the soul than the gift of being loved, so it didn't surprise me that I was facing some serious grief.  In no small part because Miki had died just a short year and a half earlier. But I wasn't ready for what it would do to me to be the one to pull the plug, to give the order for the vet to put Bounce to sleep and then administer a second medication to stop her heart.  As I watched this beautiful little creature close her eyes and relax into a face at peace, I had what it takes to convince myself I was doing the right thing.  I wanted selfishly to keep her alive at all costs, but chose to put her comfort and freedom from pain ahead of my own desires. Why then, was I feeling like I had failed at one of life's greatest challenges, to love and care for another, to be the guardian and protector of another life.  

It has been a year today. The ache is not as acute, but it won't go away. I can speak of it, and I spend a great deal of time dealing with death and dying now that I've lived beyond the normal lifespan of an American male.  I trust I will process this grief eventually. 

Just not yet.