Red, as many of you know, is failing, and every time I write about him some very nice people write me messages telling me how sorry they are about Red, and how badly they feel for me.

They often say they know what I am going through, as anyone who loves a dog has known loss and some grief.

I appreciate these messages, they are lovely and full of compassion and empathy. It is nice to be cared about in that way.

But I try very hard to be honest about what it is I am really feeling as opposed to what people assume I must be feeling.

And I am not feeling sorrow, I need to be open about that.

Watching Red sitting so regally and calmly out with the sheep this morning, I saw how content he is,  how accepting. Red is not feeling sorry or sad, he is living the life of a dog, which is about acceptance, affection and their extraordinary senses and instincts, far beyond anything I possess.

We are conditioned to respond in a certain way to the loss the people we care about feel, since we really are not taught much about what to say or feel, and we tend to run from death.

I did not feel sorrow watching Red, or sadness, quite the opposite. I felt gratitude, for getting  a dog like this, for giving him the life he deserves, and for all the nourishment and enrichment he brought to my life.

My life with Red has been everything a human being or animal lover could possibly want in a dog – love, companionship, and in Red’s case, a window into the work I am doing now that has brought me so much satisfaction and fulfillment.

When Red dies, I will certainly feel grief. But I will also feel many other things. Whenever I look at Red, I smile and feel good about a dog like this, and the wonderful experiences we have shared, and that he has inspired.

You get the dog you need, and I needed Red. I don’t feel sorry for him, and I don’t feel sorry for me.

“And when he had sent the multitudes away, he went up into a mountain apart to pray, and when the evening was come, he was there alone.” — Matthew, 14:23.

Being alive, wrote Paul Tillich, the great philosopher, means being in a body – a body separated from all other bodies. And being separated means being alone.'” And it means we shall all end.

I have felt loneliness all of my life for just this reason, I think, and two living things have altered that loneliness – Maria and  Red.

Loneliness is true of every living creature, writes Tillich, but it is more true of man than any other creature, he is not only alone, he also knows that he is alone. Loneliness is hard to endure, but impossible to escape.

I do feel a wave of loneliness when I think of Red leaving me, and I think again of how I can triumph over being alone. I don’t think I can, I think loneliness – like death – is something to accept, something Red and other dogs know how to do without being taught.

Tillich says it is the greatness of human beings that we are centered within ourselves. Separated from every other living thing in the world, we are thus able to look at it and consider it.

That’s how I feel about Red. Some sadness, sure. But no sorrow.

Please don’t feel sorry for me, as I don’t feel sorry for myself, and I don’t feel sorry for Red, and he doesn’t feel sorry for me. So why should others feel sorrow on our behalf?

The Quakers taught me this, a completely different way of thinking about loss and grief, a celebration of a life rather than a lament for its loss. That idea stuck and grew inside of me.

Pain is inevitable in our world, suffering is a choice. I rejoice at Reds’ life, I hope I will never feel sorry about. I never expected him to live forever, I had no right to expect that.

If I can’t be grateful for a dog like this, and the experience of living with him these rich and meaningful years, then I deserve to be pitied, not comforted.