Today, she is free

Love is …

Remember that 1970s back-of-the-newspaper, black and white simple line-drawn “cartoon”?

That’s what I’m thinking about while I’m thinking about the trauma of the last week and the national politics of the forthcoming. 

What is love? And how can love sustain us during dark and unpredictable times? 

The Future on this cloudless sky Monday along Central California’s coast is stingy, crusty-eyed, headache-swollen, sucky, but we know how the Hallmark slogan goes, “It will get better.” Of course—it might. Out of ashes, you know the cliché. But today, while there’s certainly hope and all the fairy dust quotes-of-the-day, The Future seems uncertain. Our hearts are heavy, bruised, bloody, and if it weren’t for Dry January, we might very well be sitting at a bar drowning our sorrows. … At least those of us who live in heavy-heart Southern California. … At least those of us who care about the environment and how we’ve ignored the naysayer warnings. … At least those of us who don’t eat animals, pick up trash around the campground, try to avoid non-essential buying, drive only when necessary, eat mostly the entirety of the food we buy, heeding our mother’s warning—-waste not, want not.

But today, less than a week after the fires were most likely set by some looney toon, politically-inspired arsonist here in Southern California, life doesn’t feel like Annie the Musical.

Especially today. 

A few hours ago, my dog died. 

She outlived her vet’s predictions by about 16 months. She stood up, peed, ate breakfast, nuzzled with her dad, stumbled on her way back to her cozy bed and fell asleep forever. 

I’ve been crying for a while now. Grief and gratitude are the opposite of numbing. You feel everything and long to talk it out with someone who understands, then flip to leave me alone, I need to work this out by myself.  

That’s where I’m at.

Yet, I need to tell you about my lost girl, Monet.

Born into a litter of pups destined to be Temecula meth guard dogs, she was rescued by Cary Grant’s former daughter-in-law, and adopted by us 16 years ago following the early death of our white lab, Bailey. To look at this poorly photographed misfit on the website, honestly, she looked like trouble. Freckled with Dalmatian black spots and A-frame ears the color of soot, her given name was Cookie, and she looked like a dog who sifted through trash heaps. But my youngest daughter was insistent that we didn’t allow first impressions to negate a possible match.

I was skeptical when she came to our beachside home and fully rehearsed ways to say, “No way,” but when the rescue concierge placed her in my arms, I instantly knew we meant to be together. The next day, when she jumped into our lily pond and her tail dipped into the water bowl, she was christened an esteemed name, Monet. She had an artist’s soul.

Monet was fiercely loyal, to a point that not everyone understood her and her growling protective teeth and snarling bark. She was a Blue Heeler, a cattle dog, whose DNA made her smart, tenacious, keenly sensitive of her surroundings and those who wished to do us harm, supremely coachable and a whole bunch of fun. Her herding instincts were natural and we were so proud of her athleticism at the beach, dog park, wherever we’d unleash her, “Go Monet, Go!”

She was healthy her entire life up until the moment the vet, here in Cambria, discovered tumors in her internal organs. Her prognosis wasn’t good and the vet gave her just a few months to live or a few more if she had surgery which, she said, was risky. I didn’t want to put her through the ordeal and elected not to have surgery, especially since she was nervous around strangers. Monet trusted few people. On top of her most-trusted list were my ex-husband, Bruce, myself, and our grandson, Bronson, who understood and loved her quirky, sometimes scary, mannerisms. 

I dread calling him this afternoon and telling him the news.

So here I sit, with the grief, with the love, with my art materials, in the sun, overlooking the ocean, far away from the embers, far away from the apartment where she was given the injection that sent her to heaven, with my heart heavy, with my life, filled with the wisdom of Monet.

Our beloved dog taught us to live in the moment. Be there for each other. Push through it, no matter how grueling and painful it may be. Have a purpose. That last one, I’m convinced that’s why Monet lived long past her vet’s predictions. Every day she woke up with pain, but she set that aside to serve her person, Bruce. 

In August 2023, when it was clear Monet was no longer well enough to accompany me on my vanlife travels, Bruce, whose left leg was amputated, welcomed our girl into his pet-friendly apartment. She hadn’t lived with him or seen him for a year as his housing situation was uncertain, but the two of them picked up where they left off—best, best buddies. Long before I sold my house and Bruce and I went our separate ways, Monet favored him. He stayed at home while I worked, and they were the best of friends. Then, as he recovered and she coped with her physical limitations, they became each other’s reason for getting up in the morning, taking a walk, socializing, planning out the day with each other’s needs in mind.

The only reason I had the heart to leave her and travel is that I knew she’d be safe and loved.

Without any agenda, Monet nudged Bruce toward mental and physical health, got him out of his depression, his wheelchair, and literally back on his right foot and left prosthetic. As recently as yesterday, the two of them went on a short walk down the hallway to greet fellow dog-loving neighbors. Bruce and Monet had a purpose.

Yesterday, while she rested and was in a coma-like trance, we Face Timed for the last time: I told her how much I loved her and all the tearful things you say to a parting loved one. But it was Bruce who gave her her last cuddle and told her, “It’s OK, Monet, you can go. I’ll be fine.”

As the home vet injected morphine into Monet, placing her into a calm and peaceful state of being, I walked along her favorite beach, we dubbed “Monet’s Beach”, thanking God, asking Him to cuddle her and reassure her that we’ll all be together again one day, and expressed gratitude for 16 years of love.

Being at our favorite place, watching the waves, hearing the seagulls, feeling the warmth of the sun on a chilly morning, I knew I’d get a sign that she passed. As I gazed at the azure sea, imagining Monet leap into the foam, a fawn-colored dog walked up to me, nuzzled my right hand, looked up, then nudged me to pet her around the ears like I used to do to Monet. 

“I am here,” whispered Monet, “I will always be here.”

Today, as the angels lifted our girl into the cloudless sky, our dear Monet shed her new red collar, her matching leash and the pain that once inhabited her ailing, restrictive body, then just like the seagulls she was fond of chasing, our sweet girl spread her wings and returned to where it all began.