Title: Old Dog Blessings
I was once a child of the 1960's, which was not a popular
place in the world back in the day.
I lived on a commune with about 10-20 people and 10-15
dogs, give or take, depending on the litter of puppies of
any given season.
A rabidly right wing neighbor shot eight of my dogs, and
later a posse of policemen swept the commune, thinking that
we would be an easier target without eight dogs to
complicate their mission.
No drugs were found.
My neighbor who killed my dogs years later embezzled eight
million dollars from the Republican Party, and his family
left him in disgust.
Meanwhile it took me 21 years to get another dog, my
beloved Mukunda.
We just celebrated his 10th birthday.
At intervals in that twenty-one year period, a dog would
come into my life, nudging me to deal with the loss of my
eight dogs.
Only one was remotely successful.
I had a short tumultuous relationship with a man who had an
old beagle named Wild Dog. One day, he dropped her off and
asked me to take care of her, twelve years after the ending
of the commune years. And I agreed that I would.
Because of her advanced age, I took her for many short
walks.
I remember time slowing down.
I remember her appreciative glances my way, and i felt once
or twice the great wisdom she emanated from every cell of
her tiny old body. I did not want to give her up, knowing
the day would soon come when she would go back with her
master.
I remember the flash of memory surfacing pertaining to my
commune dogs Alphy and Das and all their noble offspring,
and how they and Wild Dog were dog/Gods come to sweep us
away into eternity.
But her master reclaimed her and I forgot about my feelings
of love for this very dear soul, as if forgetting a very
important dream.
It is in remembering the dream that our everyday life
loses the mundane quality of reality.
As I saw on a bumper sticker recently: "Reality is for
people who lack imagination.
In this beautiful lush spring season, when green suddenly
bursts forth from mud and brown earth, we can practice
bringing that tone into our hearts for expression.
Mukunda reminds me of green even though he has a red head,
just like mine. Or is mine just like his?
We are both green souls.
The cardinal is red yet she sings, surrounded by the
profound green of the forest reflected on the great
Conestoga River that rolls past our house.
The river is also red after long periods of rain. And at
night, moon light filters through mist, reflected on dark
river, as the red fox yelps her urgent message.
And Mukunda barks to go out and find her.
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A Pit Bull washed up onto our Conestoga River Bank, one day.
He was carefully sewn into a moving blanket, weighted down
by brick and concrete block, and thrown into the river
points south of our home. The dog had deep tooth marks on
his neck, and his right shoulder has been torn apart.
He was killed in a dog fight, professional or domestic.
Are there professional dog fights in our town? I surmised
that there are–and that the killed dogs are dumped into the
town's drinking water supply.
I wrote a letter to the editor of our local newspaper,
accusing the town of ignoring this issue.
The Pit Bull was given a proper burial, down in the pasture
along the river.
We gave the fella a name: Old Mac, the Conestoga Pit Bull.
He was treated badly in his life, was taught to be mean, to
kill, to tear up smaller animals than himself.
Perhaps he would have killed Mukunda.
But it was people who created the monster who rolled up on
the bank of the meandering Conestoga.
He came to us, so we could think about him, feel deeply in
our heats the travesty of his existence. We will muse about
this every time we walk by the pile of rocks that top his
tiny memorial, overlooking Canadian Goose habitat,
squawking Blue Heron taking flight and skimming the river
surface, and bird song music, also the yelp of Red Fox
everywhere surrounding him.
So he found a final resting place where all of us who pass
can ponder his existence.
How does Old Mac, the Conestoga Pit Bull, fit into our
great theme of freedom when he was used and exploited in
his short life? And in his death, he made the mistreatment
of innocent animals into a public statement.
Mukunda regards Old Mac's grave site with a seriousness and
an aura of contemplation and reverence. He looks at the
grave for two to three minutes at a time, and therefore, so
do I.
Mukunda now realizes that bad things happen to dogs. Before
this time, he did not know. His innocence has been
transformed to worldly ways.
Since then, he listens to me more consistently, wants to
please me more constantly instead of proving his will over
mine.
And to think Old Mac could teach me to be more humble as we
place one foot in front of the other, passing his memorial
every day.
Dog is man's best friend. The dog is not returned the
unconditional love they hold for our supposedly superior
species.
Yet even when they are abused, they teach us love.
Even when they die, they live on.
About the Author:
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Kate Loving Shenk is a writer, healer, musician and the
creator of the e-book called "Transform Your Nursing Career
and Discover Your Calling and Destiny." Click here to find
out how to order the e-book:
http://www.nursingc
Check Out Kate's Blog: http://www.nursehea
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