Healing with Poetry

I'll depart from my normal routine this month, if you'll allow. I've wanted to share some thoughts on my favorite poet Mary Oliver for some time and, although not a vet or in any way associated with the veterinary or agriculture industry, Mary writes about nature and animals in such a wonderful, thoughtful way that I think she deserves a shout out here. My introduction to Mary's work was through a delightful, small work of poems called Dog Songs. If you in any way love dogs, buy it now and cherish it. It is lovely.

It this collection, Mary celebrates many of the dogs with whom she's shared her life and offers such wisdom as:

"Be prepared. A dog is adorable and noble.

A dog is a true and loving friend. A dog

is also a hedonist."

Mary Oliver

and

"Dog is one of the messengers of that rich and still magical first world. The dog would remind us of the pleasures of the body with its graceful physicality, and the acuity and rapture of the senses, and the beauty of forest and ocean and rain and our own breath. There is not a dog that romps and runs but we learn from him."

Mary Oliver

and

"And it is exceedingly short, his galloping life. Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also. It is almost a failure of will, a failure of love, to let them grow old--or so it feels. We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we cannot give."

This last passage reminds me that I'm to send a copy of Dog Songs to my mom, because her yellow Lab, Phoenix, of 14 years, died this week. I think the words above speak to our gut-wrenching loss of those pups we couldn't save (in the end, isn't it all of them?) no matter what. My own black Lab, Shadow, died of heart failure two years ago and I've said if not for species differences, I would have donated my own heart.

And oh, how easy it is to slip into sentimentality when we talk about lost pets. I'm teetering on that edge right now. The Rainbow Bridge and all that. One can jump overboard. Of course, that's not the intent of this entry. Instead, this is meant as an illustration of how poetry helps and heals (and poetry about animals, especially!).

But, if your heart is heavy because you've lost a pet, here are some comforts:

• Brain Picking's example of how a Zen master explains death
• Neil Gaiman's moving tribute to his beloved dog Cabal
• Dr. Sarah Boston's more medically-aligned yet heartfelt analysis of euthanasia
• And the bittersweet Kipling poem, The Power of the Dog

Other collections by Mary are just as enchanting. In Blue Iris, for example, one poem expresses how the morning sunlight touches flowers with "buttery fingers." Yeah, that's what I'm talking about, people. The beauty of language. Whew boy. *mops brow*

As of yet, Mary doesn't have a collection about cats. I'd like to ask her about that.

Until next time.

Pets from the Past and a Writer who Remembers

My cat Amber died about a month ago.  I've already blogged about losing a pet (see my petMD.com blog here) and I don't desire belaboring the point longer.  Instead, this loss has jogged my memory a bit and I'd like to share with you some ancient animal-loving, young writer history. 

Growing up, I had pets.  The progression of my pets followed a fairly normal course: first goldfish, then cats, then finally, finally! a dog (dogs were my passion in elementary school).  Then, middle school hit and I became horse crazy (still am).  As a child who loved books and often wrote (although not realizing I actually wanted to do such a thing as a grown-up), I started keeping a pet diary.  Initially starting as a "Fish Diary" given the initial critters I kept, this morphed from a paperback tombstone of fish that I had known and loved, with entries every time a fish died, to a handwritten record (bound with pink yarn!) of the pets that entered my life. 

My Animal Diary (you can see where it originally said "fish") - complete with illustrations!

Starting when I was nine with the too-soon death of my very first goldfish named, embarrassingly, "Goldie", this record quickly takes on the tragic tone of a child's direct observations on loss.

Apparently, my second fish, "Kally" (because she was calico), died soon after "Goldie".  Pesky goldfish. 

The next entry was more upbeat, titled: "Got New Fish!" But you see where this is going... The enthusiastic new fish entry occurred on Saturday, March 16, 1991.  Next entry: Thursday, March 20, 1991, reads as follows:

"On Thursday, March 20, 1991 Chocolate our black fish with bulging eyes died. I knew he was going to die first. But oh well. I'm sorry he did die."

Way to sort of pat yourself on the back for predicting death, Creepy Kid Anna.  And love the resolve here: "But oh well".  Kids grow up so quick.

Apparently, my parents decided by the summer of 1991, I had grown out of the fish phase and was ready for terrestrial pets:

Yes, we gave all our pets middle names. And apparently my artistic skills were limited to fish.

Soon after, more animals: Patches and her kittens, and a stray named Pumpkin.  The last entry in this journal was September 9, 1995 when I finally got my first dog, Sam. 

It's funny to go back and look at things we've written long ago.  In my case, the handwriting seems alien and the blunt phrases and overt turns of emotion surprise me.  I'm glad this flimsy journal, bound with red construction paper, has survived moves overseas and back, college dorms, and the purges that come with each successive move to a new location.  A glimpse into the past can even sometimes help us understand where we are now.  No, I don't specifically keep a pet journal anymore.  But I do journal in general and have been since 2008.  My current pets feature in these pages occasionally.  Amber sure did.  And we keep writing on.