It has always been my practice when there is trouble, or bad news, to allow myself some time – a day, maybe two – to brood, feel a bit sorry for myself, allow my psyche to cleanse itself of regret and sadness.
And then to move forward, to move on, to respect life and accept it.
Red’s story is not only timeless, its universal. We will all grow older, and then die. Problems that we once could handle become more complex, we need help and some re-thinking of life.
It is not something for me to whine about (I truly hate whining) or mourn, but to accept. Everything is a gift. No more running work for Red, that’s it.
Is there anyone at any age who does not know this story? Red was born grasping radical acceptance. He tolerates everything and everyone and is content to serve in whatever way is asked of him. He does not understand the concept of lament or regret or complaint.
This morning, Red and I began to move forward, to accept this new circumstance with grace. This is something Red has always known how to do, it is something I am always learning how to do. I’m getting there.
No more running or sheep herding, says the vet. But there is work, and there is work. Red, who is now officially the Grand Old Man of the pasture (this is a title I coveted but I can’t compete with Red) came out with me and with Maria to do the morning chores.
I haven’t chanted his commands or re-trained him or tried to communicate the new way forward, he just gets it, as he always does. Red and I have never needed words to communicate.
If he can be with me and do something meaningful, he’s fine. I don’t know if I’m becoming more like him or he is becoming more like me. It doesn’t really matter. We both will do what we can for as long as we can.
We opened the gate, walked in and I told Red to sit and ” hold the sheep,” a command I always give him to protect Maria from marauding and hungry farm animals.
Red sat and held the sheep and didn’t move a muscle until they were done, the photo seemed grand and iconic to me, it told the whole story. He just knew what to do. Red will be useful until his last day, one way or the other. I hope I can stay the same.
After 15 minutes of barn clean-up and watering, I said “Red, that’ll do,” and he turned and ran to the gate, and was happy to go back into the house and sit by the warm stove.
We have given up one kind of work, replaced it with another. In a few days, Red will return to his therapy work.
This afternoon, I’m taking Bud to the Mansion. As part of my Mansion holiday campaign, I’ve begun a series of weekly readings. The residents have asked me to read from Saving Simon, which I will do, and I have a book of Christmas readings, some poems on aging, and some old fables I dug out of an online library.
I’m planning to continue doing these weekly readings well into next year, perhaps beyond. We’ll see how Bud does, if he can sit still for 45 minutes.
It was sweet to see my Grand Old Dog in his favorite position of observation and authority this morning. There is nothing to feel bad about.
We’ll be fine. Red is the gift that keeps on giving.
How this essay did speak to me this morning! Receiving a diagnosis of ALS last year, at the age of 70, threw everything I was, and knew, into confusion and doubt. How to proceed? How to enjoy the things I’ve always loved? How to deal with, or yet, embrace, the inevitable changes coming on a daily basis?
Red has inspired me many times, but no more so than at this moment. Thank you for sharing. Thank you Red, for inspiring. Thank you both for helping me to see through the fog towards a sunny day.
Barbara, thanks and good luck to you.
This brought tears to my eyes, honoring a marvelous dog and reminding me of true devotion and acceptance. Such a loving tribute. Thank you for sharing these moments.
Grand Old Man of the Pasture! Absolutely perfect title for Red and, yes, also you. You are both inspiring me to more radical acceptance in my life. Thank you.
Good for you and Red.
I have a little black dog Buster that always gives 150%. He’s a sports dog flyball, agility, disc he has titles in all even though I’m not that great a handler he compensated for me . Last year I August he raced in flyball with a team from away and never missed a beat, ran agility tu November, and caught discs thrown over 100 feet by tracking and jumping at exactly the right moment. By March 2018 he was barely 7 years old and genetically blind PRAand juvenile cataracts. Fast moving diseases once they really start.
We adjusted he is happy and active. I wish I was more like a dog.
Really enjoyed your essay. I have often thought about how I have slowed down in my 70’s. Still remain active – just takes longer to get the job done. Am so appreciative for what I still can do which is enjoy each new day.
Before I read the essay, I looked at the picture and the word that came to mind was Majestic. Red will always be majestic, and like us as we age I agree that having purpose is so important. Dignity is important and you are giving Red that.
My Tess turns 11 at the end of the month and just this year started to show her age. For that reason, I’ve followed Red’s story intently, and I appreciate your candor. There is a universality in your essays on aging, both dog and human, that bring comfort to the reader, as well as certain realizations that none of us want to face. Thank you.
Purpose. That’s what I see in Red in this moment. Nothing more – nothing less; except for the beauty, of course… always, there’s the beauty.
Such a sweet gift, the Grand Old Dog, giving us another way to cherish them.
Loved this!! thx so much.
Such a gift to be able to be taught by our animals, what we need to learn. This picture is lovely.
You and Red, — 2 sweet loving responsible and talented boys! Your writing is humble and inspirational and means so much to me every morning. Thank you Jon Katz, for being you.
What a spectacularly beautiful and truthful writing. Thank you as always for sharing your being with the world.
I love the photo- you catch the world in a moment of fullness and spirit. Much thanks
Ever since reading Red’s name in your Letter to Rose, I have followed him and grown ro love him as I will always love Rose… two very special spirits. I thrilled to meet him at your open house two autumns ago. I grieve over this change in his life but know that change happens, as it has to me. So I lift Red up to the light where he will continue to shine and become a beacon to us all. He is an inspiration which I hope to follow for a long, long time. Loving thoughts of both of you and gratitude to you as well.