Remembering Marlee — glwalker.com

This is Marlee, my Australian labradoodle. I realize dogs are not exactly wildlife and thus this is a bit of a deviation from my typical subject matter, but bear with me.

I suppose you know where this is going, and I apologize in advance. If you are like me, I have come to dread seeing pictures of older dogs in my social media feed, because so often it is a story of the tearful goodbye. For me, with such a soft spot for animals, these are little daggers of grief that I would rather avoid. Thus, for months I promised myself that I would write this while Marlee was still with us, sleeping in my office as I worked - that this would not be another one of those sad stories. And indeed that is how I began writing, with Marlee right here next to me. I sincerely meant to finish before the end came, but I found that I simply couldn’t. I suppose there was a part of me still clinging to an irrational hope that the painful ending would somehow not come at all, but of course it did. As the Buddhists say, the cause of death is birth. It’s part of the deal, whether we like it or not.

Born on June 6, 2008, Marlee was very nearly fourteen years old when we said goodbye last week on Monday, May 16, 2022. With the loss still fresh, it can be easy to lose sight of the undeniable fact that Marlee had a long, very healthy, and I think very happy life. About a year ago she was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease, which is treatable, but also with degenerative myelopathy, which is not. Degenerative myelopathy in dogs is analogous to ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, in humans. At the end Marlee was still able to stand and walk, albeit with quite a bit of difficulty, but her coordination was getting a little worse every week, and the progression of the disease is inevitable. For most of this last year, her joyful spirit was evident even as her body failed her. That vibrant presence has been such a big part of our lives. For my wife, Martha, and me, Marlee has been there for nearly our entire marriage, and our daughter, Abby, has never known a world without Marlee.

Martha, Marlee, age 7 weeks, and yours truly; going home day, July 26, 2008

So central to Abby’s life was Marlee that Martha and I even credit her for Abby’s birth. We like to think that the little curly-haired puppy that rode home in Martha’s lap on a July day fourteen short years ago opened our hearts and taught us to love and care for another being so fully that our daughter’s unborn spirit chose us as parents. Silly, perhaps, but that’s our story and we’re sticking to it. Those first lessons came before Abby was even born, and over all these years, Marlee has continued to teach, saving the most difficult lessons for last - the hard things I needed to learn about death, dying, grief, and loss, but also about presence, appreciation, vulnerability, and love.

When we got Marlee’s diagnosis, I made a very deliberate decision, born of the unconscious commitment I made to her fourteen years ago to care for her throughout her life, her entire life, up to and including her death. As I began to confront the terrible impermanence of this creature I so loved, I became aware of just how adept I had become at keeping death at a distance, of closing myself off as a protective measure. I decided I was going to go through this differently.

I hesitate to admit, because it might sound callous, but in the past when others have talked about how terribly they miss those they have lost, it has failed to fully resonate with me, even when it has been someone I loved as well. Certainly I have felt sad. I have cried real tears, yet somehow I also suspected I was not feeling exactly what others were feeling. I had built a wall and I could sense it. I could understand how necessary it seemed - grief is terrifying, after all - but also how limiting this barrier had become. This time had to be different. I chose Marlee all those years ago, and I knew that I could not abandon her, emotionally or otherwise, as she made this most difficult transition.

So this time, I chose a different path. I decided to set the armor aside, to bare my chest, to open my heart, and to love her as fully as I knew how. I made a point to be completely present with her as often as I could, to never turn away from the ugliness of the dying process, to connect with her deeply and make sure she knew I was right there with her. I had to re-choose this path over and over again these last twelve months, through good days and bad, with no regard for my personal emotional risk. As her disease progressed, Marlee taught me that although we know where the path ends, how it gets there and how long it will take is a mystery to all. Death arrives on its own time, not according to what is convenient. It demands patience. It demands letting go of our need to control life. It requires us to recommit every day, every moment, to just being with what is. So for all these months I loved her more than I knew I could, and I am glad for it even though right now it hurts more than I knew it could hurt.

Today I received Marlee’s cremated remains from the vet. Unbeknownst to me, they made an impression of her paw. When I opened the box and saw it, the grief that had just barely begun to recede flooded back in and I wept, harder and longer than I would have predicted despite knowing that it has only been a week. It is a hurt that burns hot, but somehow I can sense that this pain, born of unconditional love, burns bright and clean, with none of the toxic smoke of emotions left suppressed and smoldering. Another lesson from this wonderful dog, teaching me that I can safely hold all these feelings at once, the joy and the pain, the gratitude and the loss, the missing and the presence.

I am left in awe of the lessons ordinary life makes available to us, if we can just allow ourselves to receive them. I have always loved animals. Marlee is not the first pet I have lost, nor will she be the last. I have always been drawn to dogs, and yet I wonder if I am only beginning to understand what they can offer us, what every relationship can offer us? In her birth, Marlee taught me how to receive another who was fully dependent on my care. In her life, she taught me to open my heart and allow myself to love fully, to share in her unburdened enthusiasm for living. In her dying, she taught me that in order to truly and deeply connect with another, to experience that greatest of life’s joys, I must also become vulnerable to life’s greatest pain, the pain of loss and grief. And in her death, she taught me that it is worth it. She taught me that I can survive it (that’s my preliminary conclusion, anyway). She taught me that I should do it more often with more people, and with more dogs too.

Marlee, I miss you.

P.S.

Thank you to Dr. Banks Douglass and everyone at Chenoweth Animal Hospital for their extraordinary care and compassion.

Thank you also to Mindi McMillan and Colonial Village Labradoodles from giving us Marlee, Neo (2009-2017), and now Spark, who has already stolen our hearts.

And we cannot forget Ruby, our 9 year old mini-doodle who has been Marlee’s buddy all these years, and who is now slowly but surely starting to like her annoying little brother, Spark, too.