Like a Blurrrr …

Karington, pretending to sleep

A month ago, the oldest dog left the planet.  Karington was very protective against any wild animal that came around.  At night she sat in her space watching over anyone who was in the room; a mystic, looking right through you, pretending to sleep, continuously aware.

                I met my wife and daughter at the clinic, the unmentionable process of giving Karington her relief from suffering, her freedom to go on.  I was not ready for their (wife and daughter) intense emotions – – –  cathartic grief.  I’ve seen such tears from my wife only when her father died in 2001; my daughter’s weeping, unprecedented.  My own process was to disconnect from such emotions, to wrap it all up as ” … I don’t want to see Karington suffer any more; let her chase squirrel and elk up in heaven; it is time for us to let her go.”  Our Bernese (Mountain Dog) knew that her older friend was not coming back, but sang the blues here & there, moved a little slower, as if trying to swim in a pond of molasses.    


The kids were getting on with their days, my wife did the same, but there was something left over from the proverbial storm; the air did not return to its earlier place, the familiar texture.  Just as I thought we were shifting gears, getting closer to life as we know it, my visionary-wife gave me the scoop:

  • “Okay, T, I’ve been doing some research.”
    “Uh-oh … Let me sit down.”

    “We can get a Great Pyrenees pup down in Texas, near Frisco.”  (Pause … I maintain a poker face)        “If we leave on Saturday after you get off work, we could get down to Louisiana to see your parents on Sunday, spend the day there with them, and then go to Texas and get the pup.  We could get you back in time for you to work on Tuesday night. What do you think?”

Have you ever been hit with an idea, invitation to adventure, challenge, and your first response is “I’m not ready for this …”?  And then, somewhere in the process (for lack of better word) it is revealed that … yes … you were ready.  If it is up to us, we might say “Oh, no.  No, no, no.  I’m not ready for this to happen at this juncture.”  And, then again, maybe we are ready … and we just don’t know it.  We loaded up on Saturday morning (the 21st), grabbed Starbucks on the way out, hammered our way East, turned right somewhere in Kansas.  At some point I looked out the window and saw a stunning mix of colors in the western sky; residue of the sunset.

Colors in Kansas
Sunset Residue in Kansas

Journey’s end at 3:30am; part dead of night, part pre-dawn morning.  ‘Saw my mom & dad Sunday around Noon.  Dad’s 92.  My dad has an amazing mind, good heart, though sometimes disoriented.  It was really good to hang out there on Sunday.  We left Monday morning, after stopping to see Mom & Dad on the way out.  It was odd, Dad was unusually agitated that morning.  He was lying down, somewhat anxious, talking about his shoulder.  I was cautious, but compelled to put my hands on each of his shoulders, applying slight pressure, and I told him to rest, and I breathed out slowly, inhaled, and continued that process.  Dad closed his eyes, calmed down, and slept.  The whole thing was fairly strange, but not in an unpleasant sense.  We knew it was time to head out, so I hugged Mom, spoke a few blessings over her. In route to Texas, I didn’t fight my reflective silence; going to a place near Frisco, to pick up a dog.  

Ok, I'm ready to get out of  Texas.
Ok, I’m ready to get out of Texas.
What's next?
What are we going to do now?

We connected with the rancher (who breeds the Pyrenees) in Scranton, TX: weathered cowboy hat; jeans tucked into Tony Lama cowboy boots with a dirt glaze; few teeth missing; healthy girth; and a joyful countenance accentuated with a reddish glow in his face, eyes with a slight squint and a child’s smile.

We need to talk
We need to talk, right now.

She was 14 weeks old, a Great Pyrenees pup; the biggest pup I have ever had to pick up.  We made it back, to the Other Side of the Trees, with one more dog than when we started.  It was all a blur.  And why wouldn’t it be, eh?  Life is that way, even when I don’t think I am ready.

On a mission
Not now! I’m busy!





20 thoughts on “Like a Blurrrr …

      1. i have thought about this often, for years, as life has unfolded in front of me and it has been show to me again and again. i’d be happy to have you quote me on this .)


    1. Sue – – – thank you for those words. I am thinking that you have owned a good dog, at some point. If so, I always like to know about what kind of dog different people have. This new pup we just brought into our family is a Great Pyrenees … She is a character. Peace. T


      1. Yes, i did. A Parsons Jack Russel… he was a great little guy full of energy and always up to something. Nice breed Great Pyrenees. Take care of your shoes 😉


      2. Sue, I pulled up Parsons Jack Russell images, and saw some great pictures. Thanks for visiting. I am curious if you ever replaced your Parsons Jack Russell, or if you taking a break from having a dog. Hey – have a good weekend. T


  1. This is a really great post, T. So many emotions wrapped up so well in your writing. My condolences to your family on the passing of Kerington. As much as I say the dogs around here are my husband’s, I know when one of them is gone, I, too, will feel that hole in the framework of life just as acutely. Your new pup looks incredibly happy & full of good spunk. Glad to hear you also were able to visit with your parents. Life IS truly a blur.


    1. Hello, my friend and blogging colleague. You are kind. I can only imagine that your dogs are joyful, with plenty of room to run around, there. Okay, I’m out. I’ve been neck-deep in alligators (only an expression). I’m way behind on checking out my favorite blogs. I look forward to getting over to your neck of the woods. T


  2. I understand, I had a cat for 17 years, during the biggest part of my childhood and young adult-hood, it was difficult to say goodbuy, … and yet, a new life is the best move, congratulations for your new dog!


    1. Holistic Wayfarer … (I enjoy writing those names) I appreciate your kind words. I am blessed that your boy liked the photos. I know that you love story. Not everyone loves story; that’s my perspective. Story can be spiritual, deep, hopeful, and connected with our journey, and who we are, who we are becoming. Peace to you and yours.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I just love how you ended this with the joy of the new pup – and the photos with the captions “ready to leave texts” and “not now, I’m busy” – is filled with that humor and hope – and I already sent you my email condolences – but again, warm sympathies for your loss ❤ ❤ ❤


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