It can't possibly be fourteen years for BearGirl, but apparently it is.

Photo copyright Wings, 2021; all rights reserved.

BearGirl in better times.

She was a Newfie, and she lived for the winter; snow was her natural habitat. She was also one of the sweetest balls of fur you could ever hope to meet, and she, along with her sister Hunter, adopted me on sight the very moment I pulled into the driveway for the very first time, a week to the day after Wings and I first met.

It can't possibly be fourteen years for BearGirl, but apparently it is. She left us at 1:12 in the afternoon, on the day of the Feast of San Geronimo. It was our first joint death of one of our four-leggeds, and it tore our hearts out.

It was made worse by the very fact that it was so unnecessary. It was veterinary malpractice that riddled her internal organs with ulcers, and then with tumors, and by the time we realized that anything at all was going on it was the evening of September 5th (another marker, as it happens, albeit not for a dog), and she was merely a bit subdued. Within days, we realized that something was wrong, very wrong; we pulled out all the stops, even took her down to Eldorado, tried everything we could think of, from prayer to corn pollen on the ultrasound cradle to every kind of traditional medicine we could find . . . not knowing that she had fewer than four weeks left.

It broke my heart. the day I first arrived here at the house, she and Hunter were in the north field when I turned into the driveway, and they came bulleting across the field like a pair of puppies, practically hoverboarding over the land. The followed my car up to where I parked and the moment I opened the door, both of these girls, who had never met me, tried to climb into the car on my lap. Hunter managed to wedge herself under my legs on the floorboards; BearGirl was enough older to stand on a little bit of dignity, and she contented herself with sticking her head in my lap and grinning at me.

And that was it. I was theirs, and I was never allowed to leave.

So when she came up suddenly gravely ill in 2007, it was staggering. On the 29th, she went with us on her very last walk around the land; Wings has a photo he shot of me crouched down by both dogs in the hayfield toward the end of it. The next morning, she was not moving much, and then suddenly a blood vessel in one eye burst, and with it, all motor control of her hindquarters disappeared. It was the day of San G, and trying to get the vet out was impossible, but we couldn't move her.

So finally, Wings called Ted, who has been our vet ever since. He was jointly on call with the vet who refused to come despite being on call, and he came. No questions; no reservations; he just came. I held her head in my lap, and Wings bent over her, stroking her beautiful silky coat, whispering to her, and Ted made sure it was painless. When he helped Wings move her, he was wiping tears from his eyes, too.

I promised Wings then and there that I would always care for their spirits, these beautiful beings who gave us the purest kind of love always. And so I took her her cedar and tobacco and water this afternoon, to the place where we scattered her ashes, and despite the howling winds, I was able to give her a little smoke, too. I always feel her there, pain-free, content. And in my mind, she's still running to greet me on that very first day, shoving her head into my lap and smiling at me as if to say, "You belong to us now."

We love you, BearGirl. We'll always belong to you.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2021; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.                                             

Thirteen Years.

Photo copyright Wings, 2020; 

all rights reserved.

Oh, BearGirl. It can't possibly have been thirteen years already since you left us. And yet it is.

She would be the first of many — so many; too many — of the animals who would have to leave us since we began our lives as a couple, and so this day is always especially hard. It's also hard because it was still too soon, entirely unnecessary but for the veterinary malpractice that took her from us. We had taken her to said vet some weeks previously, the vet clearly surprised and none too pleased to see me holding her leash, and when it came time to examine her, BearGirl turned and fled to hide her face between my knees. "Mom," was Wings's comment.

But the animals in our lives have never been child substitutes; they are equals in spirit. Dependent on us, surely, that doesn't imply a childlike status, merely care. And BearGirl was already an old soul, impossibly wise. She was in the neighborhood of eleven years old on this day thirteen years ago, and while that's long for a Newfie, she should have had much longer. But I had only recently learned of the long-term damage that had been inflicted previously, and its shadow and her spirit had finally caught up with each other.

I still remember how she greeted me the day we met: a week after Wings and I had first met, as it happens, when I came here for our first date, no small amount of trepidation on my part because of all the obvious reasons, and because I had also been so long out of the dating game, courtesy of life and work and the need to take care of two ill elder parents. I had no real idea what to expect, but as I turned into the drive, she and her sister Hunter saw my car, fixed their eyes straight on me, and came bulleting all the way across the north field as fast as their legs could carry them, so fast they seemed nearly to levitate. By the time I parked, they were dancing with anticipation; I opened the driver's door, and Hunter, a gull-sized Australian Shepherd, immediately shoved her way in under my feet, while BearGirl, enough older to insist on retaining a smidgen of dignity, merely danced and shoved her head in onto my lap. It was a minute or two before I could even get out of the car, because these two girls adopted me instantly, and they never let me go.

Letting BearGirl was exceedingly hard, and we had fewer than four weeks to adjust ourselves to the idea that she might not make it through the crisis, through the battle her body was insistently waging despite all odds. Indeed, on the next-to-last day, we were still arguing with fate, hoping for a miracle. But on the day of the Feast of San Geronimo, when absolutely no help is to be found, a mini-stroke foreclosed all other avenues, and it was time. And it was the vet who was not hers who agreed to help us help her. He's been vet to all of our dogs ever since, and he's come out for others, too. And we knew it was right, because he wept with us at the end.

I love that photo Wings took of her, above. I love the contrast between her rich black velvet coat and the bright gold carpet of aspen leaves, a shot from this very time of year, probably in 2005 or 2006. It was when she was happiest, too, the cool air most comfortable for her with all that gorgeous long black fur.  And there is not a day that goes by that BearGirl is not in my heart, nor in my thoughts. It would be impossible: All I have to do is walk outside to see the spot where, when the old manufactured home was still here, she loved to lie against the skirting in the sun. That house was far longer than our home now is wide, and so that spot is now open space, but I can still tell you exactly where it is. And so, some forty minutes ago, I did as I always do for all of our animals and I took her water and cedar and tobacco. I put them where we spread her ashes, including a little extra tobacco on her favorite spot in the sun. And I miss her terribly. We both do.

We love you, BearGirl. We always will.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2020; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner. 

Twelve Years Ago Today: BearGirl

Photo copyright Wings, 2019;
all rights reserved.

Twelve years ago yesterday, about this very time. It was our last walk together: Wings, me, BearGirl, Hunter. She lay there enjoying the autumn breeze.

She was a gorgeous [then-]11-year-old Newfie who, with her Aussie little sister, captured my heart the moment we all saw each other. The very first time I came to visit, she and Hunter heard the car and somehow knew, and as I turned into the drive they were already rocketing across the field like a pair of fuzzy bullets, ready to greet this woman they had never known existed. BearGirl danced around the open door while Hunter climbed in into the driver's floorboards under my feet, and they grinned at me.

They also never let me go, no matter what.

But on this day, San G, in 2007, we had to let BearGirl go, let her make her final journey. Twelve years ago today, again, almost to the moment. She had been poisoned, slowly, by a medication that caused ulcers, and then tumors, and by the time we knew it, it was already too late. But we tried. Oh, did we try. For four weeks, we gave it everything we had, and she did well up until the last day, when her body simply gave out. She had a small stroke, and that was it; it was time. And no one would come out, save the man who is now our dogs' vet, the same one who helped both She-Wolf and Raven on their way these last two years. He wasn't even on call, but he came. And he helped her, and he wept with us, and he arranged for her cremation, all on a Saturday.

Her ashes, like Hunter's, are scattered across her favorite places, but two in particular: the spot outside the old house where she used to love to lie up against it in the sun, now a part of the earth right outside the corner of this house, and up against one of the standing stones. At a dozen minutes after one, I'll take some cedar and some tobacco and some water out to that stone for her. If we had it to do over again, we'd simply bury them as we have with all of our dogs since, but at the time, it seemed like the right thing somehow. Besides, their spirits are not confined, and I always know when BearGirl's visiting.. She comes to Wings with the flicker, to dance at the end of his flute that she so loved to hear him play; to me, she comes on the scent of sage, the smoke of the medicine. When I smell sage and no one's burning any, I know she's here checking up on us.

BearGirl was our first loss together, of the animals, and it was a terrible one. We mourned for weeks; still do, for that matter. We didn't know, then, that this would be permanent, but BearGirl knew, and so did Hunter. Since then, I have been the keeper of the dates, always, but yesterday Wings asked about her, and I told him that I would be taking care of her spirit today, as always. The animals never harm us; they only give. It feels more necessary to honor their spirits accordingly.

And so, in a few moments, I'll do that, as I do on this day every year. And I'll weep a few more tears for our Makwakwezens. We love you, BearGirl.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2019; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

The first one. BearGirl, eleven years ago today.

Photo copyright Wings, 2018; all rights reserved.

It's a winter shot, but it was always one of my favorites. BearGirl, our beautiful Newfie girl, and the first of our animals that we lost together, so to speak.

It was eleven years ago today: the Feast of San Geronimo, about a dozen minutes after 1 PM, hotter than hell and with absolutely no one available, and the man who is now our vet (well, he and his newish partner in his practice, and the same one who came out five months ago almost to the day for She-Wolf) was not on call, but he came out anyway. Ever since, this day has not been San G to me, but the day we lost our beautiful girl. It makes for a difficult end to a difficult month every single year.

Back then, we did the cremation thing, and so BearGirl and Hunter have their ashes scattered in specific places; there's no grave to visit, but we know where their spirits are. And so, at the appointed time, I did as I always do: cedar, tobacco, prayers at the relevant place. This fluffy little girl (and her little "sister," Hunter) adopted me on the spot the very first moment they saw me, literally, and simply refused to let me go. Ever. They knew better than we did.

Eleven years, and there is not a day that she is out of my mind and heart. She had a particular place in front of the skirting of the old modular home where she loved to lie in the sun — that structure was longer than this house is, and so the spot now is open earth, between the southwest corner of the house and the bank of red willows than run alongside a few feet away. And every time I go past it, I see her there staring up at me with those eyes, deep pools of the purest kind of love.

I miss her every day. I always will.

We love you, BearGirl.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2018; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Really just a programming note:

Photo copyright Wings, 2007, 2014; all rights reserved.

Today's edition of Turquoise Tuesday will likely be late, perhaps very late. The truck blew a hose just as Wings was pulling in yesterday afternoon, and the mechanic is already here to take a look (and probably tow it a mile up the road to his place). We have an appointment at 1:00 that's likely going to take a while. And my brain is, of course, not exactly operating at full function these days.

It's also the seventh anniversary of the day we lost the little girl above. It's why I hate this day; while it's associated with San G in everyone else's minds, to us, it's inextricably intertwined with the our first loss of animal together. I've written about BearGirl before; she was a beautiful spirit, and we both still miss her every day. 

If I can get today's Turquoise Tuesday post up before we have to leave about noon, I will; if not, it'll be this evening.