I buried my daughter at the edge of the forest. Most of the time, these days, I am not here in this body. My mind is in the clouds and my heart is buried in the Earth. I always knew that I would give my daughter back to the Earth too soon, but I was not prepared for the way it would hollow me out. The forest where she rests is real, and the ephemeral world of concrete and steel, structures and straight lines is a distraction. I only want to be in the forest, her forest. I want to join my daughter in the Earth, and rest with her, but I promised to take care of the ones she loved, so I must wait.
My daughter was adopted, but I didn’t love her any less because she didn’t share my DNA. That she was a different species, a dog, does not make her less than human, obviously. That she wasn’t human made her even better in my eyes, and we shared a bond even greater because of the ways each species complemented the other. In my work, I deal with grief and loss every day, and I am often asked, implicitly or explicitly, how to deal with the loss of a family member. Although I sympathize with those who have lost a cat or a dog who was a central member of their family, I have never known quite what to say. This experience, the loss of Kelsy, my daughter, my friend, my partner, my inspiration, has placed a burden of grief on me that I don’t want to shed. I will never expect to be relieved of the loss of her. Although I will experience joy and connection with others, it will always be beside the space that she left, never filling that space.
Although Kelsy’s body is with the Earth, she never left me, and she will never die. Because I knew I would lose her too soon, I made sure to be present with her during the too-brief time we shared. Consciously, deliberately, I shared experiences with her. When we worked together, we became one, the dog and the handler bound by the leash. I read her body language as she guided me on the scent trail, and I often knew what she was thinking, although not always. If we simply played fetch at the lake with a stick, my mind was with her, in the water with her, almost feeling her swimming as though I swam beside her. I wasn’t on my phone or thinking about a distant problem. I was with her in those times we shared. Because I stepped fully into those moments, they are with me today, more real than real. If I have any advice to give about grief, it would be to those who have not yet experienced the loss, and I would tell them to be with the one you love, all the way there, in the fullest experience. Yes, it will hurt more when that love is gone, but feeling the absence of a lost love is another part of the whole essence of love.
Right now, I am not functioning my best. I am distracted, reactive, and broken. I think I will get back into my work and once again fulfill my obligations. One day, it won’t knock me down when I see a picture of Kelsy or when I go on a search or a trip to the beach without her. I will learn to bring her with me on these new adventures much as I took her on those old adventures. When I throw a stick into the lake for another dog, Kelsy will be right there with us, always. Indeed, on the day I buried Kelsy’s body, I gently smoothed the sandy soil over her, and I kept out a small stone that would slip easily into my pocket. I carry it with me always, there but unseen, and every day the the stone becomes more polished from being turned and handled in my pocket, hidden but always present. Kelsy’s stone will go back to the Earth one day, not soon, when I will rest with her.
Kelsy and I searched for lost pets over 350 times during her 8 year career. I remember the ones we found, but I also remember the ones we didn’t find, working so hard and ultimately failing. We never failed because of a fault of Kelsy; she always did her best and focused on the job, but sometimes the challenge was beyond us, to be solved by another path. Kelsy and I hiked in the Olympics and the Cascades, always finding a lake or river or stream, or even a patch of mud to play in. On the day I picked her up from the shelter, at nine weeks old, we stopped at a lake and she swam as though she was made for it. Last summer, on a hot June day, I went to the beach with just Kelsy, leaving the other dogs at home so I could just be with her, all of my attention on her. I waded out into the water and threw the stick for her, and she swam around me, barking so loud even though I was right there with her. I could hear her barks echo off the distant forest. I took many pictures that day, wanting to capture the day. The water was so clear, and little crabs scurried along the sand below the surface of the water as the Kelsy monster thrashed about. And I was just there, with her. I am still there with her.
My daughter was adopted, but I didn’t love her any less because she didn’t share my DNA. That she was a different species, a dog, does not make her less than human, obviously. That she wasn’t human made her even better in my eyes, and we shared a bond even greater because of the ways each species complemented the other. In my work, I deal with grief and loss every day, and I am often asked, implicitly or explicitly, how to deal with the loss of a family member. Although I sympathize with those who have lost a cat or a dog who was a central member of their family, I have never known quite what to say. This experience, the loss of Kelsy, my daughter, my friend, my partner, my inspiration, has placed a burden of grief on me that I don’t want to shed. I will never expect to be relieved of the loss of her. Although I will experience joy and connection with others, it will always be beside the space that she left, never filling that space.
Although Kelsy’s body is with the Earth, she never left me, and she will never die. Because I knew I would lose her too soon, I made sure to be present with her during the too-brief time we shared. Consciously, deliberately, I shared experiences with her. When we worked together, we became one, the dog and the handler bound by the leash. I read her body language as she guided me on the scent trail, and I often knew what she was thinking, although not always. If we simply played fetch at the lake with a stick, my mind was with her, in the water with her, almost feeling her swimming as though I swam beside her. I wasn’t on my phone or thinking about a distant problem. I was with her in those times we shared. Because I stepped fully into those moments, they are with me today, more real than real. If I have any advice to give about grief, it would be to those who have not yet experienced the loss, and I would tell them to be with the one you love, all the way there, in the fullest experience. Yes, it will hurt more when that love is gone, but feeling the absence of a lost love is another part of the whole essence of love.
Right now, I am not functioning my best. I am distracted, reactive, and broken. I think I will get back into my work and once again fulfill my obligations. One day, it won’t knock me down when I see a picture of Kelsy or when I go on a search or a trip to the beach without her. I will learn to bring her with me on these new adventures much as I took her on those old adventures. When I throw a stick into the lake for another dog, Kelsy will be right there with us, always. Indeed, on the day I buried Kelsy’s body, I gently smoothed the sandy soil over her, and I kept out a small stone that would slip easily into my pocket. I carry it with me always, there but unseen, and every day the the stone becomes more polished from being turned and handled in my pocket, hidden but always present. Kelsy’s stone will go back to the Earth one day, not soon, when I will rest with her.
Kelsy and I searched for lost pets over 350 times during her 8 year career. I remember the ones we found, but I also remember the ones we didn’t find, working so hard and ultimately failing. We never failed because of a fault of Kelsy; she always did her best and focused on the job, but sometimes the challenge was beyond us, to be solved by another path. Kelsy and I hiked in the Olympics and the Cascades, always finding a lake or river or stream, or even a patch of mud to play in. On the day I picked her up from the shelter, at nine weeks old, we stopped at a lake and she swam as though she was made for it. Last summer, on a hot June day, I went to the beach with just Kelsy, leaving the other dogs at home so I could just be with her, all of my attention on her. I waded out into the water and threw the stick for her, and she swam around me, barking so loud even though I was right there with her. I could hear her barks echo off the distant forest. I took many pictures that day, wanting to capture the day. The water was so clear, and little crabs scurried along the sand below the surface of the water as the Kelsy monster thrashed about. And I was just there, with her. I am still there with her.
