Of dogs and grief and perspective

My computer has arrived in Memphis, TN where it is being prepped for brain surgery. I spent many hours getting this old laptop workable, and it is. It takes 10 minutes to boot up in the morning, but that's ok. I lost 10 days of email and work, but this wasn't a bad moment in time for that to happen. The computer will be gone for another 10 days, and there are tasks we can't really do without it, but nothing life-stalling. Spending time on computer glitches is the least fulfilling way to expend psychic energy - there is nothing redeeming about the experience, you don't learn something or become stronger or come out the other side a changed person in exchange for your troubles. It's just a blank. But that's all ok.

The same day that my computer imploded, my friend Xena had to put one of her dogs to sleep. Malcolm came to her when another one of my friends was going through a horrific divorce, during which she was temporarily homeless. Xena and her husband first took Malcolm in on a temporary basis, but my friend soon realized that she was not going to be able to provide him with a stable home soon, let alone the attention that he deserved. So she asked Xena and her husband if they would adopt Malcolm. It was, she says to this day, one of the hardest things she's ever done.

I love dogs in general, but anyone who met Malcolm would tell you he was an exceptionally sweet dog. There was just something in his face that expressed this unusual sensitivity and sweetness. Xena and her husband already had a dog - and two cats - but they embraced Malcolm with all their hearts and felt blessed that he had come to them. My friend who was Malcolm's person for the first eight years of his life felt blessed that he'd found such a loving home, and that she'd had the courage to give him up to it. Within the first couple years, he required two surgeries, and my friend knows she could never have afforded to give him that care. She knows that giving him a new home meant giving him life, in many ways. And indeed, he lived another eight years in his second home, a phenomenally long life for a large dog.

So I probably would've bitched more about my computer situation if it hadn't coincided with this little dose of perspective, about true loss and sacrifice, and also amazing love and new life. Both of my friends lost a little piece of their hearts this week with the passing of Malcolm. Even as I type this I'm saying to my dog Toby, "leave it, leave it, LEAVE IT" because we're in the Season of Great Allergies and he wants to lick himself raw. Nelly is whining and clingy because Enrico is out of town and this perturbs her sense of order, and I wish she didn't have this stubborn streak of separation anxiety. But this week, at least, I can't get annoyed with them, because I'm reminded that they won't always be here.