Go Not Gentle Into That Good Night

There's a lot you can learn from your pets.

Take our last dog and current cat, for instances:

Our dog, Missy, was the outdoors dog's outdoors dog. She gloried in snow storms, rejoiced in rainstorms, and whenever the occasion arose, revelled in running free with the steers on the in-laws' ranch.

She was never trained as a hunting dog, but she knew how to hunt: she did so to survive and feed her pups. That's how she came to us in the first place; somebody had dumped her, either pregnant or with her puppies, out in the middle Weld County. They lived a semi-feral existence until a farmer family found them. The farmer was able to find homes for the pups easily enough, but with the uncertain history of the mother was unable to find a home for her. Until my wife came along.

Our family at the time (specifically the two girls) wanted a dog. I'm not a dog person, and my wife, due to childhood traumas, detested dogs in general. But, the girls wanted a dog for Christmas, so my wife set out to look for one.

Missy saw my wife, knew that she had to win her over if she was to find a new home, and did her level best to do so. My wife took the dog home, and while we brought her home for "the kids", she remained forever my wife's dog.

Mike the Tomcat was the only one to have any real misgivings. Eventually they settled there differences and agreed to disagree, staying on opposite sides of whichever room. Since Mike was my cat, this made for some interesting moments when my wife and I sat side-by-side on the sofa: we would cuddle a bit, the dog and cat would growl, we would have to break up an alley fight in the living room, then go back to trying to get some time together again. Sometimes the dog went outside, sometimes the cat was sent to the basement. Sometimes we just sat on opposite sides of the room. (In compromise, nobody wins, everyone is merely equally unhappy.)

I guess I'll have to include Mike, though that was not my original thought. Mike died sometime before Missy did, being quite old when Missy came to us. Even though he had cataracts, he still wanted to go out, especially at night, to 'cat around' a bit. At this point, he'd stay out most of the night (except for bad weather) and be waiting at the door in the morning.

One morning he wasn't there.

I won't go into detail as to what went through my heart and mind. We called and whistled for him every day for the next three days. Our kids had given up on him and were beginning to think I was a little nuts to continue to whistle for him, especially since the weather had turned cold. I knew he couldn't see well enough to find his way back from where ever. But I knew, if he could hear me whistle, he would follow the whistle home.

On the evening of the fourth day, while I was whistling for him, I heard a plaintive "meow." And there he was, cold and bedraggled, but generally healthy. I was never so glad that I had taught him to come to a whistle than that night. After getting a good supper, he alternately shivered and purred himself to sleep on my lap, Missy notwithstanding.

After that, his catabout times were restricted to about ten-minutes' time in the evening. I think he understood, a little, that it was for his own good. But he always drug his heels (unless it was raining) on his way back in.

He died a couple of years later when he was seventeen years old, his old cat body finally wearing out on him, just after Easter that year. We buried him under the peach tree. For what it's worth, that was the first year that tree put on fruit.

Missy, as I said, threw herself into enjoying life, protecting the family from steers at the ranch, and even a bear, once, while on a camping trip. She never walked when she could run. The squirrels were never safe in our yard as she leaped to catch them. They generally gained the height of a tree or the top of our privacy fence in time. but they were certainly a good deal slimmer than they would have liked.

What laid her low was a stroke early one Sunday morning. By this time the kids had moved out, and Missy was very much 'our' dog now. I say 'our', but really, she liked me, but she loved my wife. She was too big to be a lap dog, but she tried to be one anyway.

I awoke early that morning, and walking into the kitchen to find Missy lying on the floor, staring sightlessly, her legs making scrabbling motions as if she were running (like dogs sometimes do when they're dreaming). She yipped occasionally as if in fear, running as fast as she could from the darkness overtaking her, as if she could out run death itself. With a final shake, she stopped.

I put my ear to her side, and listened as her heart ran down from it's racing to nothing at all, like an old wind-up clock ticking it's last tick. I told my wife, who had joined me by that time in trying to comfort Missy, that it was over.

Uncharacteristically, she started to cry (I'm more likely to, and I hadn't), berating herself for crying over a "... Damn, Dumb dog!" There was not much left to do but hold my wife and cry with her.

I've written Missy's elegy some time ago, so I won't repeat it here. I'll try to post a link to it later.

The last two lines of Dylan Thomas' poem reads: "Go not gentle into that good night./Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I think that just about sums up Missy.

Snuggles, our current cat, is on her way out. I can say that in full certainty. She has developed a cancer on her abdomen that would surely qualify her for euthanasia if I took her to a vet. Yet she still lives her life as best she can as an old lady kitty, not quite up to her kitten name of "Fizz Kit" any longer, except when the three-year-old comes careening through the house.

I ask her, not really expecting a reply, whether it's time to be put down, to end it. The only reply I get is her steady cat stare, and her steady purr.

I take that as a "Let's keep it going a while longer." We can learn a lesson from that cat.

"Go not gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Yes, You Can

Anger - Forgiveness

Two sides of a coin.

Anger does little good for most folks.

Certainly there are times to get angry and stay angry until the reason for the anger is resolved, wrongs are righted, injustices satisfied. Most wars are finished (and sometimes started) on the idea of a wrong to be righted. Sometimes it's even true.

But that's not the kind of anger I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the little rages we have when someone cuts us off in traffic, insults our dignity, or otherwise offends us. Such small things can have tragically large consequences. For instance:

= Someone makes a lane change to get to an exit. The person cut off races down the same off-ramp hard on the tail of the first, striking the vehicle, and both cars are totaled when the both go off the embankment. Result: Property damage and injury to both people.

= A man fires a gun on New Years Eve. He misses his intended victim and the .44-cal slug pierces the wall of a home. Result: an innocent young girl dies in her sleep.

= A twelve-year-old shoots a six-year-old in the school yard for 'dissin'" him by stepping on his shadow. I doubt she knew what she had done wrong. Result: one child dead and the other - still a child - incarcerated.

Yet, such things could be avoided if we taught forgiveness on the part of the wronged party instead of conflict resolution by gunfire. Most things are accidental or unintentional, and most people would make a small change to not offend if informed. The grace of giving way covers a lot of pains. So does forgiving, and not remembering the slight, or the hurt, or the debt.

"I’ll get even!"

How? Is it worth the hurt returned?

"Yeah, but he owes me!"

Yes, but will he ever care?

"I'll never forgive him until he begs for it!"

You may have a long time to wait. Ultimately, who is being hurt by your action?

"He is!"

Only if he knows, and cares. The Roman soldiers were only doing a job when they nailed people to crosses. Whether they were forgiven or not was beside the point to them. But forgiving his executioners I'm sure enabled Jesus to die a more peaceful death.

"Cold comfort!"

But comfort nonetheless.

The truth is the only person being hurt by our un-acted upon anger is ourselves. And if we do act on it, often times we hurt more than what we intend. The proverb of "A man who seeks revenge must first dig two graves," is truer than most of us want to admit.

So, forgive.

Of course the truly contrite person will appreciate the forgiveness and mutual healing is apt to occur when the one injured forgives the one doing the injury. Relationships are restored that way. Sometimes that healing starts when we forgive the other without waiting to be asked. The person in the wrong may doubt that forgiveness is even possible.

I've managed to offend someone in particular, who told me, when I tried to apologize, that she neither gave nor accepted apologies. Our acquaintanceship ended at that point, as she continued to be raging mad against me. I tried to apologize a few more times after that, and gave up when I saw that it was pointless. It did explain a lot about her, however. You see, I'd been waiting for her to say "I'm sorry," concerning some slight she had given me, and she was never going to do it. I moved on.

I wonder if she still pulls up her anger and stokes its furnace regarding that personal bad day I had that spilled out on the rest of the people around me. I needed a lot of grace that day. And in that light, I could understand how she felt justified in "Never forgiving me." I knew I was contrite. I also forgave her for not forgiving me. I hope she has found the wisdom of forgiveness since then.

And yet I do the same thing she did: I trip over some memory and I'm flashing white-hot anger again. I try. I try to forgive, grant grace, ignore, whatever. What doesn't work is hashing it out in my mind again. When I fight these ephemeral battles over again I'm usually in no shape to be kind to anyone, including myself.

When I practice forgiveness, including forgiving myself for my own shortcomings, I do much better. In a weird way, though, the other is more "fun." It's hard to explain, except maybe to an adrenaline junkie, but part of me enjoys the rush, even as it threatens to destroy me.

Forgiveness is more for the forgiver than it is for the forgiven. The rush to destruction is sidetracked. Peace has an opportunity to calm, to mend, to heal.

In short, forgiveness brings us closer to that place where God dwells.

Let go of your anger. Forgive the offender. Let peace flow in.

Yes, you CAN!