I have never seen a person “die.” I was not familiar with the physical experience of seeing someone “pass away” or finding someone “gone.”
I am writing for the first time about an experience new to me. That experience showed up for me as I discovered the limp body of my beloved golden retriever at precisely 6:30 AM the morning of Monday, December 12th, the year 2022. I remember it so vividly, waking up to the sound of my phone alarm. I usually press snooze, but that morning, I sprang up from the carpeted floor immediately. My golden retriever has been facing a medical condition called canine megaesophagus since he was diagnosed on September 10th. I did not realize his beautiful, joyful walk in the rain on Saturday, December 10th, to visit his friend would be his last.
My mind never imagined he would be gone so soon. I had a dream, a plan, and a vision of putting him in our new car and moving us in January to Los Angeles. And then the thought came to me later that the universe had other plans.
Grief is an incredible mystery. It is not only felt for humans, for the death of people we love, but from my experience, it is the death of identity, hopes, and dreams for that person. That person is my dog. The memory of him both brings me sadness and joy. Fifteen years ago, I promised myself that I would take care of someone other than myself, and that was when I fell in love with the eyes and smile of a sweet golden retriever baby whom I did not know we would name Finnegan.
I did not question bereavement when I lost my grandmother to COVID in August 2021—but grieving for my dog, I was wrought with embarrassment, shame, loneliness, and despair. In my mind, I was afraid of being judged as weak, a wimp, a loser, and pathetic with a mental disorder. After all, I kept hearing the idea that he was “just” a dog, so I resisted the emotions that rose from within me.
No moral distinction exists between a human’s death and an animal companion’s death. The feeling is universal, if not more significant. When my grandmother passed, she lived in Japan, and the idea was that I would never get that yearly phone video call from her wishing me a happy birthday or sending me Christmas and New Year wishes and that her goodbyes would be filled with “I love you.” The joyful memories of being with her throughout my childhood — having tea with her at the kotatsu table to keep our feet warm during the winter and making door curtains out of rolled paper with colorful pages from fashion and movie magazines. That feeling I feel for discovering my dog breathless is vivid and heartfelt and came with great shock. Regret for actions not taken, thoughts not spoken, and self-blame for leaving his community in Columbus came to me. The ideas of “what if I stayed up and slept next to him” and “what if I took him to the emergency room that afternoon?” the cases went on. Would the outcome have changed, and would he still be alive today? He was always by my side for over 15 years. He was receptive to my care and was patient with every attempt for me to keep him well.
My relationship evolved from being identified as his “handler” to being a mother to a 15-year-old boy in a 101-year-old body of a dog. I felt a rush of sorrow as I mourned for his smile and love for me and those around him. He is extraordinary and human, filled with love, wonder, tenderness, and joy. I found myself scrolling through endless videos and pictures of him with that beautiful smile on his face. I found myself lighting an oil lamp daily and keeping it lit and adorned with flowers. I found myself chanting a mantra for his peaceful transition as I applied a sacred ash of burnt dried wood and cow dung on his head, neck, heart and chest area, his belly, legs, and tail, dressing his body with flowers from my neighbor’s garden and decorating his bed with his favorite toys, not knowing where he would go. I drove to the mountains where he was cremated and prayed for his body to be burned with respect and dignity. I visited the Hindu temple to pray for him and sat in silence. I sob uncontrollably, wiping my tears as I face those around me, noting that I did not want to burden anyone with the sorrow inside me.
Seeing that smile brought me joy and purpose and became a driving force in my life. I got him to California in 2018 with the dream of him experiencing being with his grandmother and grandfather, aunties, and uncles creating joyful memories with our expanding growing family. The idea that I would never see him again walking alongside me and the future without him breaks my heart. A friend reminded me that Finn is “Enzo” from the 2008 novel “The Art of Racing in the Rain.” I am grateful that I had the opportunity to be a mother. I am thankful I learned and witnessed love, curiosity, and joy through all the years he was by my side. I wonder where his next life will be.
I don’t know what is happening yet. Yoga and meditation allow me to honor the grief, witness emotions and thoughts as they arise without judgment, and accept life's preciousness and the realization that my love for Finn endures.
I don’t know what the next chapter will bring. I will stay open, curious, and receptive to what life brings.
Thanks to dear friends and family members near and far who witnessed and received Finnegan’s softness and love and will continue to honor those who gave him his best life.
Thank you to the people in the canine nutrition and holistic approaches and teachers of homeopathy for helping me be curious to go beyond traditional practices of veterinary medicine to help my Finnegan thrive into his early teens. Thank you, Finnegan, for trusting me to turn to homeopathy and acupuncture to live a healthy and happy life as your body has allowed.
Thank you, Finn, for being there for over fifteen rich years, filling life with happiness and tenderness, and making everyone you meet feel that feeling that makes everyone love you.
I will live in honor of my beloved boy Finnegan. xo
Finnegan at his favorite place where he roamed with his beloved friends and cultivated enduring friendships for over ten years of witnessing four seasons - Thank you to The Whetstone Park of Roses, Columbus, Ohio. We were surrounded by the kindest of humans and sweetest of friends. I have never seen a four-legged boy love flowers so much as he did—photo courtesy of Fox and Twig.
