Living In The Moment

My rear bumper has been ado
ed with a sticker one of my kids picked out seven years ago when we brought two English Mastiff puppies, Spunknik and Tasaki, into our family. The sticker read I Love (heart actually, a drawing of a heart, you know!) My Mastiff. I used to also have one that read My Mastiff is Smarter Than Your Honor Student. I covered that one up with one urging single payer health care about a year ago after Spunk’s untimely death.
Now the second sticker has been altered to read I Miss My Mastiffs. Lots.
Tasaki, Spunk’s brother, died recently. Now he’s gone too.
Over the past few years ‘Saki had several what I believed were fainting spells, ones that I witnessed, and ones that my daughter also witnessed. He came out of them quickly and I decided not to have him checked out, mostly because these fainting spells were very infrequent. He appeared to be healthy in every other way. Mastiffs are ‘gentle giants’ and he was a big lover! I worked at the veterinary hospital as an anesthetic tech for 10, and taught techs for several years prior to that. I believe I have some knowledge of dogs, and certainly decades of experience with hounds. I was comfortable with doing nothing.
I’d been helping a friend remodel a cabin in Wyoming’s Snowy Range, staying at the cabin for days, and sleeping in my van at night. Saki was my van-mate and, as always when camping, he liked to sleep up close, so I was warm on those cold nights at 10,500 feet! Saki spent days there truly living a dog’s life.
In the evenings after we quit working, I’d usually take a walk with Saki, and sometimes my friend, Tom, would join us, sometimes not. I also had time to read, and was finally beginning to get into Tolle’s The Power of Now. He teaches ‘being in the now,’ being in the moment, which is the only ‘place’ we ever really live. Hanging from ladders installing insulation one day I realized that I had indeed been ‘in the now’ for the past two hours. I joked with a friend a few days ago about writing a book, Zen and the Art of Hanging Insulation in Old Cabins. I remember reading many examples over the years, though, of doing things ‘in the now;’ drinking tea, washing dishes, hiking. I began to experience it myself.
I have also been learning to notice that my thoughts are not ‘me,’ noticing that they are something different than ‘me.’ How could I be observing them if they were ‘me?’
I’ve also embraced a 12-step program for some time now and study the teachings with a passion. In the text the program uses are a list of promises including one that reads “we will intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle us.” We also use the Serenity Prayer: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. A simply prayer to say but not so easy to practice at all times.
I woke up about 4:30 on a Saturday morning a month ago and could hear Tasaki panting. This usually meant he needed to go outside or that he was hot. It wasn’t hot so I got up to let him out. I found him lying on the floor unable, or unwilling, to get up. I laid down beside him petting him and talking to him. He immediately calmed down and relaxed. I don’t know why, probably never will know why, but I knew he was in trouble. I’d gotten home about 10 the night before and he greeted me as usual, very happy to see me, and he bounded up the stairs after me to my bedroom. No indication there was anything wrong. Until the wee hours Saturday morning. “We will intuitively know how to handle things that used to baffle us.”
I remembering hoping whatever was happening would resolve; perhaps it was another fainting spell and he’d come out of it, as before. I remember intuitively knowing he was dying. I stayed present with my big guy, lying on the floor talking to him, petting him, just being there. I tried to feel a femoral artery in both of his thighs. They should have been easy to find in a 200 pound dog. I couldn’t find them. I thought about waking my friend up in a neighboring bedroom and asking if he’d help me get Saki downstairs and out to my van. Take him to the veterinary hospital. I chose not to. I intuitively knew this was not the thing to do. Tasaki was with me, comfortable, being loved, and would hate to be taken to a hospital. Somehow I knew.
I was there with my wonderful dog, my buddy, crying and talking and feeling my feelings; being present in the moment. Feeling both serenity and deep sadness. I remember one moment when he lifted his head and looked at me directly in my eyes. I knew he was leaving. The serenity and sadness, and being really present with this precious creature, created a place that felt like heaven. It was both terrible and beautiful. It was real.
About a half hour later he was gone. I texted my daughter at 6 am and she called back at 9. She was devastated. She came by to say good-bye to Saki, and we laughed and talked and cried together. I texted my son as well, but he chose ‘not to see Tasaki this way.’ He’s learning to take good care of himself.
Life doesn’t always work out the way I want it to; in fact it rarely does these days. My dog’s death taught me to be present in the moment, an immense gift; one I wouldn’t ever ask for, but one I’m glad I was given. Thanks, Big Guy.
Peacer
Randy Mergler, M.S.,LMFT
970-980-6308
www.limitlessliving.org