On the loss of the Mandog, Codi. 

 

 

I probably would've been among the first to say that over-emphasizing the importance of a loss of a pet is a bit self-indulgent;  however I am surprised that with Codi's passing, I find myself experiencing some of the same things that I have felt with the passing of family members for whom we easily justify feeling a strong sense of loss. 

 

For example, at the most basic level, I'm aware of a deep empathy for a living creature with an individual personality  who existed, but is no more except in the memories of those who cared for him.  I see his individual personality as I think about how he never walked, but always ran full-bolt with his black, cocker-spaniel ears flopping when he was serious about getting somewhere.  I see it when I remember how he chased the ball and teased about its return by cupping it between his paws and looking up at me as if over the top of his spectacles, or how he squealed excitedly and circled around my feet when I returned home even after the briefest absence.  His outward expressions of what I can only describe as pure joy in living evidence his individuality as well as his own personally rewarding, day-to-day experience.  It is very easy to empathize with those traits, and in a bit of an exaggerated way, the loss of his expressions of joy create an imbalance in the universe.

 

Layered over that, I sense an equally deep personal, if not selfish sadness in my own spirit rising from all of the ways that I will miss his joyful presence.  I will miss how he enthusiastically seized every moment.  How he teased with the ball he eventually laid at my feet so I could toss it again.  How he surrounded me with his  unbounded and unconditional glee every time he welcomed me home.  I'm selfishly saddened by the fact that I can no longer share in those moments with him.

 

But an entirely different level of sadness, even distress overwhelmed me the millisecond I realized exactly what was happening to him.   He was lying on the floor in the middle of the sunroom, head resting on his front feet spread before him, looking peacefully at me.  His breathing was labored, but no more so than after some normal exertion.  I was stroking his head and talking to him.  Youngest had made an appointment at the Vet that was scheduled in about half an hour because he had been lethargic that morning.  We were watching him in anticipation of describing his condition to the Vet, but then, in his last minute of life, he lifted his head and coughed quietly, once, and then again.  He laid his head down and only then did I actually realize what was happening.  Only then did it occur to me that he was passing from this life and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.  He coughed gently again and then lay completely still.  I cupped his head in my hands and said "oh, no . . . Codi . . .  NO . . . Codi . . . what happened?"  I embraced him and helplessly asked him to "hang on...please hang on."

Remembering that helplessness is almost as sad as the loss of his presence.  It transcends the loss of a single loved one and rather speaks to a part of our  universal condition that I've sensed before.  That is, the recognition that we live on a ball of magma hardened on the surface like an eggshell, careening through a vacuum at a gazillion miles an hour well-beyond our control, surrounded by other careening objects that we so far, continue to barely miss when a collision with any one of them would obliterate all physical signs of our existence.  In that reality, we hover over the tiniest details of life to create the illusion that we do have control, when in fact, we don't.  Codi's sudden, unexpected passing reintroduced to my conscience awareness that philosophical concept.  I picked him up like a rag doll and rushed early to the Vet, and even though it took only a few minutes to arrive, the Vet could only say, "I'm so sorry . . . he's gone." 

Stepping back a little, I guess our pets contextualize our lives, don't they.  They each represent distinct, definable time periods, and their passing is often a mile marker for the end of an era.  For instance, in my life, Smokey (the cat) reminds me of Newfoundland and snow outside and playing indoors.  Rebel's brief but happy life stands for my kindergarten years, climbing trees in the back yard and singing this ole man while rolling down the hill in the front yard. Pepper, the wild mutt from the pet store means Colorado and Mrs. Henderson's third grade class.  Ginger, the Moroccan cocker-poodle mix that my parents called "best dog ever" bridged my childhood with my teenage years.  She was a constant while my family moved from place to place over her life span.  Taffy and Puppy joined us as my sister's dogs. Heidi the black standard poodle marked my college years, though Papa adopted her after I graduated (she was replaced by Muffy, a toy poodle that sat in Papa's lap).  Magnum defined the years that took ex and me from honeymoon through two kids and a mortgage.  And, Monika represents our move from Preston Hollow to Cowtown where we adopted Codi and Maddie.   

Codi specifically represents the era that began with Youngest's senior year in high school and Eldest's first foray into independent living.  He stands for the span of the time during which Eldest and Youngest both completed their education and entered into the working world.  A time in which we all survived divorce and the passing of family members who were ever-present context-definers in their own right.  A time we enjoyed the excitement and novelty of living downtown, and then traded that for the relief of returning home.  To call his time with us the "Codi-era," is not is not hyperbolic at all.

It is with these thoughts that I recognize the end of the Codi-era like the end of so many other previous eras.  It is no longer a present tense reality, but rather has been relegated to memory.  And, I can only say, Codi, Mandog, thank you for enriching our lives. We miss you.