lakshmi

Lakshmi came to live with me on Monday, 8 January 2007.

There was no question that I'd eventually adopt another husky. I'd assumed it would be at least 6-12 months after Nanook's passing before this happened, so I was a bit surprised to find myself with this 13-month-old pup in my care so soon.

She was a rescue dog, found on my local Craigslist, if you can believe it.

I'd been checking the websites of the local humane societies, rescue organizations, and the like, for a couple of weeks. I was warming up to the idea of living with a husky again. Even though I contacted a few folks about the dogs, I thought it was just practice for when the right dog finally came my way.

Then I saw Lakshmi's photo. And I recognized her.

A couple of months after Nanook died, I had a pair of dreams about him. The circumstances were different, but in each dream, I was with what I thought was Nanook, only to discover that I was instead in the company of a larger, darker dog of the same breed. This Alaskan husky would peer at me over its right shoulder to show me a warm brown eye.

Lakshmi does indeed have one warm brown eye (her right), and one cool blue one.

It's been twelve years since I was last partnered with a husky yearling, and while I have some wisdom of experience, I also have less personal energy at 37 than I did at 25.

Named for the Hindu creator goddess of light, prosperity, luck, and courage, this dog is a loving and maddening handful. In the couple of weeks she's been with me, she has destroyed countless ball-point pens, a pair of lightframes, her own dog bed, and a necklace I beaded for myself when I was 17. Her favorite game is stealing empty toilet paper rolls from the paper recycling bin.

Still, she is better behaved than Nanook was at her age, but just barely. Lakshmi is also very shy -- of new dogs and new people -- in a way that Nanook never was. Where Nanook was a personal introduction service on a leash, Lakshmi takes a good while, usually several meetings, to accept a new person, or to play with a neighborhood dog.

Journey, my "old lady dog," seems both relieved and peeved by Lakshmi's presence. She doesn't care much for the pup's playful antics -- and her protests are both vigorous and vociferous -- though she is sleeping better at night, knowing that full guard dog duties are no longer resting solely on her shoulders.

The cats, I hope, will one day forgive me for bringing this fifty-pound, mischievous adolescent into the house.

I'm experiencing my own adjustment period to this sudden and dramatic increase in activity -- because she does need to go on several prolonged walks every day. I've even hiked her deep into a neighborhood natural trail in an effort to tire her enough to enjoy a calm evening at home, but I succeeded only in wearing myself out.

There will be more destruction of personal property -- some of it precious, very likely. She will learn to respect and be gentle with the cats, or she won't. If I have anything to say about it, she will learn not to hog the entire queen-size bed at night. Last night alone, she rolled both Journey and Osiris the cat to the floor, and I woke up on the very edge of the bed, with Lakshmi practically on top of me, contentedly stretched out atop the flannel duvet.

The adventure begins.

grief

I'd written previously about how devastating the loss of Nanook last September had proven to be. He died four months ago, to the day.

In November, I was still having a very difficult time, and understood that I was clinging to my grief -- because it was all that I had left of him. Moving beyond his loss meant, at least in part, moving away from him. I was still counting the days and weeks since he died.

The surviving dog and two cats were having difficulty adjusting to his absence. The dog felt overwhelmed and outnumbered by the cats, and her health was declining rapidly -- she'd started going downhill last summer before Nanook died, but now it was happening faster. One cat took over as alpha male, while the other started misbehaving as he jockeyed for higher position in the hierarchy.

Not that the house had been especially orderly with Nanook as alpha, but at least things had been calmer.

I was lonely without him, and so angry that he had gone. I carried his leash with me when I took the other dog out walking. His collar on my desk had finally lost his scent. When I retired at night, I missed the weight of him curled up next to me on the bed.

I started talking to him, in earnest, telling him how I was feeling. One night, I flat out yelled about how much I hated that he was gone. That's not a word I use casually.

By the next morning, something had shifted. It was easier to get out of bed. I looked forward to going to work for the first time in a long while.

By Thanksgiving, I was able to mention him in light conversation without getting too teary. That was new. I was smiling and laughing more when I thought about Nanook, remembering how mischievous he had been as a puppy and how good he'd been at outsmarting me. I still cried for him, but not as hard, and not as often. And I was somewhat relieved to not have to clean up the vast amounts of his hair that accumulated in the house year-round.

Just a few weeks ago, I came across this:

Grief is the rope burns left behind when what we have held to most dearly is pulled out of reach, beyond our grasp.
--Stephen Levine

That's pretty much it.

Though it can seem at first to be a bottomless pit, grief -- like a rope burn -- does heal. I'd gotten so used to living with it that I was almost surprised when it finally began to lift and I found myself squinting in the breaking sunshine. Letting go and moving on.

Grief is temporary. Love and memories are what last.