Sanford

WARNING: Content discusses the death of an animal, and may be sensitive to some readers.

Sanford is gone.

Cameron and I went to take him for a Saturday afternoon walk, and as I rounded the corner of the house to collect him my feet froze. His chain was caught on the post of the chain link fence, wrapped around and around and around. His motionless paws were lifted off of the packed snowy ground, rain-diluted blood staining the white of his fur. He was dead, and I knew right away, as soon as I saw him. His lifeless body was frozen there, and I stood frozen, mouth agape for a moment before I looked back in pleading horror at Cameron.

Cameron knew immediately that he was gone because my feet stood solidly in place; I did not run to him, as I would if he was still struggling. Cam’s expression began to mirror mine and he walked slowly past me and up to Sanford’s body to make sure he was in fact gone before we knocked on the front door. The tears came quickly, and my breathing was strong and fast, little gulps of air in between the whimpering sobs. My good friend, so many times my only companion in the wilds of the woods here, so many times a welcome respite after work, who kept my lonely heart full of unconditional love. I missed him already.

We knocked. The loud music turned off, and I let the poor guy doing the kitchen renovation know that Sanford was dead. This man, Reed, came immediately, looking as shocked and full of remorse as Cameron and I, and lifted the collar from its stranglehold. I stood close enough to smell his wet fur. He lowered Sanford’s immense body to the ground, and said that he should move him someplace safe so he wouldn't get eaten. The things we worry about living here.

“My God. I just heard him barking this morning. My own dog is in the truck. They weren’t playing because…” his voice trailed off before he went back to the task at hand: moving the body to a safer place.

There was a piece of clear heavy plastic that he grabbed, and he and Cameron dragged Sanford’s body, still warm, across the yard and into the shop. He must have been gone only hours, his barking too routine an occurrence for anyone to take notice, the chain too strong. His owner would be calling later that day, away for the weekend while the kitchen was being re-done, and Reed would tell him of the news.

The rain had finally let up, and pockets of open sky were making their way along the ridge at the edge of the river valley as Cameron and I walked up the hill from Sanford’s house after standing with Reed for a few minutes, all in shock. My steps hit the ground in calculated effort, their spacing frail and meek. I had been feeling pretty grey over the last week, a feeling that has been building for the last month or so. Cabin fever I believe they term it, although it affects each of us out here differently. A string of illnesses, back problems, the challenge of teaching such a small group of children in professional and personal isolation, the rain, the inside of the house. Too much self-reflective time, too much quiet perhaps. It all added up to a weight I felt too weak to carry on my shoulders any longer, and finally on Saturday afternoon, in time with the breaking clouds, I had decided to dust myself off again, to take Sanford out for a soul-filling walk in the woods.

We waded up the hill, slow steps, my head shaking back and forth in disbelief under my hood, tears stopping and then starting again, Cameron just behind me telling me how sorry he was, his own face frozen in colourless shock. A car coming towards us, stopping when they saw my face. A couple who live up the hill. I tell them of the news. A big hug, more tears, and then more weaving slowly up the hill. He was gone.

We spent a lot of the evening talking about it, unpacking it, the scene, our reactions, how we felt, what we thought at each moment. I cried a lot, wasn't hungry, kept seeing the scene in my mind. Talking about it is such important work when a trauma occurs. It really helped me, and will continue to be necessary as I go on with the week, with the grieving. 

I drove Cam to Lillooet today, stocked up on groceries, drove back in thinking silence, about Sanford, about this life here, about the weeks ahead, about where the students and I are going. I do feel strong again now, strong in a different way than I did when I first left the house to take Sanford for a walk. Things have quickly worked themselves into a sharper perspective. Or something like that.

A couple of calls from people around town today. There will be lots of support, I know, and I am so thankful that Reed and Cameron were there to help right away, when the pain was most acute, the sore of my heart open and bleeding. I would not have known what to do on my own, would have had to go seek help elsewhere if no one was home, would have run up the hill, or perhaps down the road, knocked on someone's door. There would have been help nearby of course, help that I know by name, but I was glad not to have had to seek it out in a blur.

It is a real tragedy, the loss of such a beautiful creature. I feel thankful that I had the time with him that I did, that he was here to explore the mountains around town with me when I was fresh to the area, that I spent some time last weekend giving him a good, long brush, that our last walk together was to the first place we ever walked, and that we walked right to the end where he could have a long solid drink of water, recently thawed.

I’m going to miss him dearly, but I feel picked up. Maybe not exactly dusted off, but standing straight, ready to face the week, ready to grieve when I need to, ready to talk it over with people who have questions, ready to take a walk with his owner this week, perhaps, to reminisce and remember.

I know I will be okay in the end. That everything will be okay. It always is in some sense. Always gets better when you start to watch your small steps. One in front of the other.

And this weekend I am getting out of here, going to Whistler at least, maybe even to Vancouver; somewhere to regroup. I need a break from this place, from the trappings of my living room, however beautiful and welcoming at most times, and from the tampering of a mind wound up with too much inside and too much familiarity.

Thankfully I have the freedom to choose to get away, and to actually get in the car and go. This is not the case for everyone here. And I have lots of people in my life who care, who have been calling and checking in. For all of this I am thankful, and right now this is enough to keep me strong.

I'm going to miss you, dear friend. May you always find yourself on happy trails until the day when we will walk together again.