All life is uncertain, but that uncertainty is intensified by a prognosis of imminent death.
Now while Zoe lives on earth, a creature among creatures, and I can think with some calmness, I want to be grateful for the privilege I have had to know and to care for this amazing creature.
There is a line in one of the Hebrew psalms that is translated, “In time of wrath, Lord, remember to have compassion.” God cannot “forget” compassion, for “mercy” or “compassion” are but other names for the divine nature. I think that this line of poetry comes to mind because I need to remember: In times of testing or suffering, remember to be grateful, choose to give thanks. And so I shall now give thanks for Zoe’s life.
Our families have housed dogs over the decades, but in my time away from family, on my own, I have lived with and cared for only three dogs: Rummy (2001-2005); Zoe (2005—); and Moses (2007—). All three are black Labrador Retrieves, all from authorized breeders, all registered members of the American Kennel Club, all with some field and national champions among their direct ancestors. Each of the Labs has displayed itself as a truly unique being. The two males, Rummy and Moses, have been easy to care for, in part because they are willing to please me, and so obedient. Zoe, the first born of ten pups in her mother’s litter, has been the very embodiment of Alpha Female. As much as she has tried my patience at times, her remarkably good qualities have ever earned my love and respect.
Who is Zoe? It is impossible to define reality or a part of reality. No verbal formulations can do justice to the nature and character of a being, and so not to Zoe. Still, a few characterizations seem fitting, as I seek to give thanks for such a wonderful creature of the unseen Creator.
I am thankful for having had the courage to purchase Zoe from a reputable breeder of Labradors the day after Rummy died. Had I waited to get another dog, as I thought I would do, I would have missed one of the memorable adventures of my adult life: living with and caring for Zoe. When I visited the Lone Willow Kennels on 21 December 2005, there were three pups left from a litter: two chocolate males, one black female. I had expected to purchase another male, for I so loved Rummy. Watching the three pups play and interact, the black female appealed to me: She utterly dominated her two brothers as they played with a tennis ball; she controlled the ball the whole time. The breeder had wanted to keep this female for breeding, but he was willing to place her in a very good home, and asked that I would consider letting him breed her later, and I agreed. With grief in my heart and tears on my cheeks for Rummy’s death just the day before, I picked up Zoe, placed her in a small box in my car, and drove her back to Yankton. We became briefly acquainted, and I fed her a little, let her out, and gave her a nap. She looked so adorable, so innocent, lying still in the my fair-sized kennel cage. That evening we spent time together, as I worked on a few photographs of Rummy, and grieved. I named this female “Laura,” in honor of Doctor Zhivago’s beloved Laura. After three days of dealing with this pup, I held her face in my hands and said, “Honey, you are no Laura. You are Zoe, Life.” In time her official name became Amazoa, with a play on the mythic Amazon Women, famed for size, strength, and dominating powers.
Now is not the time, however, to recount our life together. I seek not only to remember, but to give thanks.
I am grateful for receiving this bundle of joy and energy into my home. I am grateful that slowly but persistently, Zoe lifted my heart out of intense grief at the tragic death of Rummy, just turned 4, from kidney failure. And I must give thanks that Zoe, with her alpha female temperament, bore with my emotional weakness and even consoled me. Yes, Zoe comforted me, but as I watched her, played with her, photographed her, she won my heart and mind, and became an important part of my life.
Part II
Having written yesterday’s memo on being thankful for Zoe’s life (Part I), I immediately felt dissatisfied with it: I do not wish to sketch out our life together in a biographical flow, for that may do little or nothing for the reader, and it pulls me away from dealing with the present.
Zoe is dying of cancer. Although people who see her remark on how good she looks,they do not know her as I do, nor do they see her around the clock. Zoe’s spine now protrudes as she walks. Every hour, night and day, I must let her out to relieve herself. She drinks vast quantities of water, eats snow, but as of last evening, will not take any food. (I hope that she will eat today, but not even a piece of roast beef has tempted her so far today.)
Yes, I want to be thankful for Zoe’s life and the time we have spent together. She has been such a physically strong and healthy dog (excepting only some arthritis in legs, now in her spine). We have had many hours together walking, “on the hunt” as I drive behind the dogs, photographing, visiting farms and ranches, chasing deer and rabbits. And we have had many hours together at home, with Zoe usually near me, keeping her eyes on me, perhaps waiting for another meal, or surely for a chance to play.
And Zoe has been an unsurpassably good foster-mother to Moses. Zoe was a mature two years old when I brought home a male pup, and named him Moses, and watched her play a motherly role. Never did they fight, although at times they could play hard, stretching a sock until it shredded. Moses always deferred to her dominant status, until sometime last summer, when he would charge the door to exist first from our car to go on “the hunt.” For such impudence, she has given him a few nips on the ear, but I have seen no blood, no damage. For such good motherly qualities in Zoe, I have long been thankful.
These reasons to be thankful should suffice for now, adding only one: I am thankful to have loved Zoe with such intensity, such devotion. She has more than earned the best love I could offer. Even as she dies before my eyes, I believe the truth of Shakespeare’s famous words, “’Tis better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all.” For loving this dog so deeply, so tenderly, I give thanks to the God of all love. And as painful as it is to say so, I willingly suffer with her and for her as she dies.
Now while Zoe lives on earth, a creature among creatures, and I can think with some calmness, I want to be grateful for the privilege I have had to know and to care for this amazing creature.
There is a line in one of the Hebrew psalms that is translated, “In time of wrath, Lord, remember to have compassion.” God cannot “forget” compassion, for “mercy” or “compassion” are but other names for the divine nature. I think that this line of poetry comes to mind because I need to remember: In times of testing or suffering, remember to be grateful, choose to give thanks. And so I shall now give thanks for Zoe’s life.
Our families have housed dogs over the decades, but in my time away from family, on my own, I have lived with and cared for only three dogs: Rummy (2001-2005); Zoe (2005—); and Moses (2007—). All three are black Labrador Retrieves, all from authorized breeders, all registered members of the American Kennel Club, all with some field and national champions among their direct ancestors. Each of the Labs has displayed itself as a truly unique being. The two males, Rummy and Moses, have been easy to care for, in part because they are willing to please me, and so obedient. Zoe, the first born of ten pups in her mother’s litter, has been the very embodiment of Alpha Female. As much as she has tried my patience at times, her remarkably good qualities have ever earned my love and respect.
Who is Zoe? It is impossible to define reality or a part of reality. No verbal formulations can do justice to the nature and character of a being, and so not to Zoe. Still, a few characterizations seem fitting, as I seek to give thanks for such a wonderful creature of the unseen Creator.
I am thankful for having had the courage to purchase Zoe from a reputable breeder of Labradors the day after Rummy died. Had I waited to get another dog, as I thought I would do, I would have missed one of the memorable adventures of my adult life: living with and caring for Zoe. When I visited the Lone Willow Kennels on 21 December 2005, there were three pups left from a litter: two chocolate males, one black female. I had expected to purchase another male, for I so loved Rummy. Watching the three pups play and interact, the black female appealed to me: She utterly dominated her two brothers as they played with a tennis ball; she controlled the ball the whole time. The breeder had wanted to keep this female for breeding, but he was willing to place her in a very good home, and asked that I would consider letting him breed her later, and I agreed. With grief in my heart and tears on my cheeks for Rummy’s death just the day before, I picked up Zoe, placed her in a small box in my car, and drove her back to Yankton. We became briefly acquainted, and I fed her a little, let her out, and gave her a nap. She looked so adorable, so innocent, lying still in the my fair-sized kennel cage. That evening we spent time together, as I worked on a few photographs of Rummy, and grieved. I named this female “Laura,” in honor of Doctor Zhivago’s beloved Laura. After three days of dealing with this pup, I held her face in my hands and said, “Honey, you are no Laura. You are Zoe, Life.” In time her official name became Amazoa, with a play on the mythic Amazon Women, famed for size, strength, and dominating powers.
Now is not the time, however, to recount our life together. I seek not only to remember, but to give thanks.
I am grateful for receiving this bundle of joy and energy into my home. I am grateful that slowly but persistently, Zoe lifted my heart out of intense grief at the tragic death of Rummy, just turned 4, from kidney failure. And I must give thanks that Zoe, with her alpha female temperament, bore with my emotional weakness and even consoled me. Yes, Zoe comforted me, but as I watched her, played with her, photographed her, she won my heart and mind, and became an important part of my life.
Part II
Having written yesterday’s memo on being thankful for Zoe’s life (Part I), I immediately felt dissatisfied with it: I do not wish to sketch out our life together in a biographical flow, for that may do little or nothing for the reader, and it pulls me away from dealing with the present.
Zoe is dying of cancer. Although people who see her remark on how good she looks,they do not know her as I do, nor do they see her around the clock. Zoe’s spine now protrudes as she walks. Every hour, night and day, I must let her out to relieve herself. She drinks vast quantities of water, eats snow, but as of last evening, will not take any food. (I hope that she will eat today, but not even a piece of roast beef has tempted her so far today.)
Yes, I want to be thankful for Zoe’s life and the time we have spent together. She has been such a physically strong and healthy dog (excepting only some arthritis in legs, now in her spine). We have had many hours together walking, “on the hunt” as I drive behind the dogs, photographing, visiting farms and ranches, chasing deer and rabbits. And we have had many hours together at home, with Zoe usually near me, keeping her eyes on me, perhaps waiting for another meal, or surely for a chance to play.
And Zoe has been an unsurpassably good foster-mother to Moses. Zoe was a mature two years old when I brought home a male pup, and named him Moses, and watched her play a motherly role. Never did they fight, although at times they could play hard, stretching a sock until it shredded. Moses always deferred to her dominant status, until sometime last summer, when he would charge the door to exist first from our car to go on “the hunt.” For such impudence, she has given him a few nips on the ear, but I have seen no blood, no damage. For such good motherly qualities in Zoe, I have long been thankful.
These reasons to be thankful should suffice for now, adding only one: I am thankful to have loved Zoe with such intensity, such devotion. She has more than earned the best love I could offer. Even as she dies before my eyes, I believe the truth of Shakespeare’s famous words, “’Tis better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all.” For loving this dog so deeply, so tenderly, I give thanks to the God of all love. And as painful as it is to say so, I willingly suffer with her and for her as she dies.
