Category Archives: Stories

Elegy for an Aristocratic Lady

There’s something about losing a beloved pet that’s similar to hitting your funny bone, or perhaps more aptly, getting kneecapped. You know the pain isn’t going to kill you, but for a short time it’s excruciating, almost unbearable, and although you know it will get better eventually, for the time being you can’t focus on anything but your loss.

My husband and I got kneecapped pretty good last Friday, when we had to put down our beloved Leonberger dog, Lady. Her registered name was Legacy’s Aristocratic Lady; she was a Grand Champion and the mother of two litters of fine Leonberger pups. In this post, I just want to note her passing, even though the world around me is falling apart as I do so.

Lady was always a big girl. My husband called her “Lady” specifically so that people would realize she was a girl, because with her size and heft, she looked less delicate than a typical female Leonberger, which are large dogs to begin with. Here are a couple of pictures of Lady and her littermates when they were newborns:

If memory serves me correctly, Lady was wearing the red collar. The really important thing about Lady is that she was best friends with her sister Alfie (Legacy’s Alphaba). Alfie was the runt of the litter, so it was kind of sweet that the biggest puppy and the smallest puppy got along so well. Sometimes bitches, even from the same litter, have problems establishing a pecking order, but that was never an issue with Alfie and Lady. They were best friends from the very beginning, and as far as they were concerned, there was no pecking order.

Alfie laying on Lady
The size difference is really apparent here.

Lady grew up to be an AKC Grand Champion, but more importantly, she and her sister completed well over one hundred visits as Therapy Dogs to our local library as Reading Dogs (PAWS to Read), during which they patiently listened to young children read to them.

And throughout their lives, they stayed best friends:

About a month after her first litter of puppies left for their new homes, we acquired a Siamese mix from our local Humane Society, and proceeded to go on a three-week camping trip with all of our pets. Lady, perhaps still mourning the departure of her four puppies, latched on to Leo Tolstoy. From the moment she met him, she decided that Leo was her feline offspring:

Leo and Lady remained closely bonded, as you can see above.

Three years ago, Lady had another litter, and we kept a puppy, whom we called Millie (“Legacy’s Lady Camilla”). Here she is perched in her favorite spot:

And the years passed. We knew Alfie and Lady were approaching old age as we celebrated their eighth birthday at the end of February. (Leonbergers, as giant breed dogs, generally don’t have long lifespans.) And I had worried for years about which dog would live longest and how she would handle the final separation. I’m not surprised that Lady went first; she had many physical issues, most stemming from a knee injury she sustained when she was four years old. But of course we were still devastated when we learned three weeks ago that Lady was dying of osteosarcoma–an all-too-common disease in Leonbergers. So we set out to enjoy the last bit of time she had with us as much as we could, taking her for drives in the countryside so she could enjoy all the smells, spoiling her with treats, and generally just loving her as much as we could.

Lady in the background, Millie near the food bowl (as always!), and Alfie and Leo Tolstoy together

I can say that I never, in eight years, saw Lady curl her lip at another creature. I have heard her growl from time to time, but only in her sleep or when disciplining her puppies, never as a threat. She was unfailingly gentle, always loving, and she thought every smaller creature was her own long-lost puppy. I could say she was the best dog ever, but that wouldn’t be true, because Alfie, too, is the best dog ever, and Millie, though young, is showing great promise of becoming the best dog ever, too.

We all miss Lady terribly. As I said at the beginning of this post, hitting your kneecap on a sharp object certainly won’t kill you, but it sure feels like it will for a while. We’ll survive the loss of Lady, certainly, but the pain hasn’t ebbed away just yet. And we are all, especially Alfie and Leo, doing the best we can to wait for our grief to subside.

Alfie and Leo the night after Lady died

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On Nostalgia

Today, on my 11th day of quarantine, I’m wondering whether it’s a bad thing to use nostalgia as escapism.

C.S. Lewis’s science fiction novel (yes–he wrote a science fiction trilogy, back in 1938) Out of the Silent Planet has a fascinating take on the uses of nostalgia. The book is clunky and not terribly good, but it has some really interesting elements in it. In fact, I wish Lewis had stuck to this kind of writing rather than move to the kind of popularized theology which later made him so famous; he might have gotten much better at it, and even as it is, he introduced some fascinating concepts. As an example, when the protagonist Ransom (whom Lewis supposedly modeled after his friend J.R.R. Tolkien) arrives on the planet Malacandra, he finds himself among a group of beings called Hrossa and learns from them about a way of life that is in many ways opposed to life on the Silent Planet–earth.

One of these differences involves how a hross views life experiences and the memories they create. As the hross called Hyoi explains to Ransom, “A pleasure is full-grown only when it is remembered. [It is ] not as if the pleasure were one thing and the memory another. It is all one thing…. What you call remembering is the last part of the pleasure, as the crah is the last part of a poem…. You say you have poets in your world. Do they not teach you this?” This point is almost immediately muddied by the conversation that comes after it (Lewis clearly did not develop clarity of exposition until sometime later in his career), so let’s do the unthinkable and simply take it out of context in order to discuss the nature of nostalgia itself.

Nostalgia poses a bit of a difficulty for me. As I’ve grown older, I’ve found myself embarrassed about a growing tendency towards nostalgia. For example, I’d be saying things to my students, or to other young people around me, and suddenly I’d stop and say, in a rueful tone, “Man, I sound just like my grandmother talking about the old days.” That was enough to shut me up. But today, I’m wondering whether that was the wrong response.

The term “nostalgia” is interesting. The “nost” in it is Greek and comes from the word “nostos” — to return home, while the “algos” is apparently Latin and refers to pain (as in “neuralgia” — “pain due to damaged nerves”). So the word, a fine example of macaronic language (meaning a mixture of languages in one word or expression), actually means “pain in returning home,” but we use it in a difference sense, to refer to a sentimental affection for things past. Perhaps pain in the return home isn’t too far from its meaning, in that nostalgia is often bittersweet: we remember with fondness things from long ago, and lament that they are indeed in the past and no longer part of our present or our future lives.

For me, there’s a bit of a shock involved in nostalgia. As my children grew up and left the house, I found myself with more time to pause and reflect on things, and I realized that I had lived well over half my life without being conscious of the passage of time. Then all at once, it hits you like a ton of bricks. I had my “aha” moment concerning this realization on a business trip (remember business trips? there’s some nostalgia for you!) to San Francisco a while ago. My colleagues and I were discussing the city as we ate some delicious sushi.

“I was here a long time ago, but it sure has changed,” I volunteered.

“When were you here?” asked a colleague.

“Hmmm, it was—” I stopped when I realized that it had been well over 25 years since I’d been to San Francisco. The idea that I could have been walking and talking, indeed sentient, 25 years earlier, hit me hard.

And that conversation happened ten years ago now.

I’ve gotten more used to nostalgia recently, and I wonder whether the current pandemic has helped that along. But I wonder how healthy it is to indulge myself in old I Love Lucy episodes, or to watch all of Downton Abbey, or even, if I apply this to my taste in literature, to read centuries-old books. Is my nostalgia–my attraction to the past–an honest attempt to make sense of my life and to enjoy it fully, as Hyoi the Hross describes it in Lewis’s book, or is it merely retreating into a past that has nothing to do with an alarming present and an even more frightening future? Is nostalgia living one’s life to the fullest, or is it avoiding life itself?

It’s a fascinating question, one worthy of many a late-night discussion among friends and colleagues, complete with a few bottles of wine. What a shame that the pandemic that makes the question pertinent also makes getting together to discuss it an impossibility.

However, that’s what “Reply” and “Comment” buttons are for, and I look forward to reading some of yours below.

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A Very Short Story

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Image from Wikipedia: By U3173699 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=81674970

 

I want to refer to a day many years ago, back when the world was normal and my kids were still at home. It was a weekday afternoon, and I was making chili for dinner, chopping up ingredients at the kitchen counter. My daughter, a high school student who was also taking classes at the local community college, breezed through the back door, walked through the kitchen, put her books down on the dining room table, and returned to the doorway to say, “Mom, the kids in my school are so stupid. I mean, they’re just so dumb that I get worked up about it. I actually think I’ve gone through the Stages of Grief about their stupidity.”

“What?” I had been dicing bell peppers, but I put down my knife and looked up at her. She had just come home from her college psychology class.

“Well, we were learning about Elisabeth K├╝bler-Ross’s theory about the stages of grief, and I realized that the kids I know are so annoying and stupid that I’ve gone through all those stages about them.”

I asked her to explain, and she went on. “So, the first stage is Denial. I start out thinking, ‘I cannot believe these people are so stupid. Maybe if I ignore them, I won’t have to deal with them at all. The extent of their stupidity actually scares me, so I’ll stay away.'”

I nodded and said, “Go on.”

“The next stage is Anger. I get angry at their stupidity, because they frustrate me, and they make me anxious. I’m just mad that they’re dumb and they don’t care about changing.”

I waited for her to continue.

“Okay, then comes Depression. I seriously get depressed about how stupid they are. I begin to think that they’ll never be anything but stupid, no matter how much I — or anyone else — tries to help them. It makes me sad that anyone can be alive and so dumb.”

By this point I had nothing to say. It’s always a little overwhelming the first time your child shares a truly interesting thought that you didn’t plant in their brain.

“That’s when I start Bargaining. I say to myself, ‘Oh, they may be stupid in this class. They may be stupid in all their classes, but maybe they’re good athletes. Yeah, they’re probably great at football or basketball or volleyball. They’re in band, so maybe that’s what they’re good at. See, they’re really stupid, but there are ways to compensate for that, aren’t there?”

She paused a moment, then finished by saying, “But I always end up Accepting their stupidity. I just factor it into my plans, sometimes I even use it to get what I want, and then I move on to something else.”

She stood up, grabbed her books, and went upstairs to her room, leaving me staring after her. I had nothing to say in the face of such brilliance, but she didn’t even notice.

Every single thing she’d said made perfect sense, and I promised myself one day I would write about it.

And now, 15 years later, awake at the crack of dawn because I can’t stop thinking and fretting and worrying, I realize that we’re probably all going through the Stages of Grief about the Coronavirus, and I’ve finally made good on my promise.

P.S. If you’re looking for more stuff to read, check out my friend John’s blog: TomatoPlanet! at https://ininva.com/. John’s been doing this blogging stuff since way before it was cool, and he’s got some great stuff there.

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