On August 26, 1999, Ramona, our nine year old Standard Poodle, was bitten on the eyelid by a Sidewinder, a poisonous rattlesnake. On December 9, she succumbed. Sandwiched in- between were a series of treatments; a spleenectomy, chemotherapy, blood transfusion. Ramona lost hair, lost muscle, lost energy and eventually her life. What follows is our story.
If I had more knowledge about what constituted a “good” Standard poodle, I never would have brought Ramona home. Fortuitously, I was quite ignorant at the time and thought she was the “perfect” dog. In countless ways she was. A professional “poodle person” would say that she was too long, too narrow, with sparse ear leather, a muzzle too sharp, a rat-like tail and a temperament too reserved. As is often the case, some things are meant to be, and my unseasoned eye freed me to see beyond the surface of things, to see her as she really was----a highly sensitive, intuitive, intelligent, sweet puppy with eyes that captured me from the second I met her. Eyes that spoke her soul, eyes of keen intelligence which tracked my every move, eyes that met mine as an equal. Her eyes riveted mine. I fell in love with her eyes and, in short time, with her.
Today, more than 9 years later, I recall a moment of intense bonding as clearly as if it were happening now. She was laying on my lap, belly up, and we were making intense eye contact. Suddenly, I felt a wave of electricity, a visceral energy, pass through us, and from that moment on we were attached. Ramona became my beloved companion who accompanied me through the numerous pathways that mark a life; in joy and loss, tears and laughter, worry, sickness, love, despair--through all the ripples of my existence, she witnessed me, was there, in her quiet manner. Her presence honored my life.
The lessons learned from our dogs are extremely profound if we take the time and commit ourselves to really listening to them with every part of our being. Their wisdom touches the very heart of life. They answer, in a quite simple way, questions asked for centuries about the foundations of existence--the nature of unconditional love, patience, how to endure pain and suffering, loyalty, living in the moment, true joy, and how to surrender to death.
From the onset, Ramona was not a demonstrative sort--a pat here and there, an ear massage (and she would make that last as long as she could), having her rump scratched—that was really all she wanted in the way of physical attention. And a lick from her was considered to be an honor, rarely bestowed, and only at times of extreme gratitude. But as essential to her as air was to have me in her line of vision at all times. If she had that, her world was complete and she was at peace.
And so it follows that one of her biggest joys was to be wherever I was, which often meant accompanying me to the therapy office. Ramona rapidly became my co-therapist, in-residence, with an acute, intuitive sense of what was needed. She innately knew who to approach, who to leave alone. With children, she was a “natural,”--in her quiet way, she would walk up, wait for a pat, her tail wagging. She instinctively knew how and when to hug children--they would sit, legs open, ask for a hug, and she would walk into their space, sit down, put her paws on their shoulders, and move in as close as possible. Imagine how magical and validating this was for children who didn’t feel lovable.
When I was just about ready to leave for the office in the morning, Ramona would race to the front door, her energy intense and barely contained, quivering, waiting to run to the car. Then I would open the car door, in she would jump and we were off. For some inexplicable reason, I delight in eating breakfast while I’m driving to work. So did Ramona. She especially liked toast and cheese and for every bite I took, she got one too. If I became preoccupied, drifting into my own thoughts, Ramona would remind me of her presence by placing a persistent paw on my shoulder. Sometimes I didn’t feel like sharing my food, but the way in which she asked for it was so funny to me that I always gave in. In retrospect, I’m glad she got her way.
Ramona had her favorite people and knew them by name. If they were coming to the office that day, I would tell her, by saying “so and so is coming today” and a broad grin would fill her face in conjunction with her wagging tail. I smiled too. On a busy day, during breaks between patients, Ramona would hang out in the waiting room, gently visiting people who were waiting for their appointments. I might be preoccupied, bring a patient into my office, forgetting Ramona. Invariably, I would her a “scratch, scratch,” her way of saying “knock, knock,” and I would open the door. In she would walk, situating herself comfortably and unobtrusively for the hour. On days she couldn’t come-- and a few days a week she couldn’t because we rotated our poodles---she would immediately become depressed, lying in a corner, refusing a treat, inconsolable. Talk about feeling guilty--well I sure did. Actually, I felt miserable leaving any of my poodles. I know I loved having them nearby as much as they loved being in my presence.
Ramona was quite ladylike, never a “bullish” dog. She was, in actuality, quite understated and subtle, so it was no surprise to me that when it was bedtime, she was able to position herself on our bed in a way that never interfered with our freedom of movement. She knew exactly where we lay, and then, when she located her spot, she would sleep soundlessly for the rest of the night. And lucky for us, she was a pretty late sleeper, because we were never morning people, nor was she a morning dog.
Ramona’s patience was pronounced in all aspects of her being--whether it would be waiting for me to get ready in the morning, spending long days in my office, often without any attention at all, or lying for countless hours at the front door anticipating my arrival home. No complaints, just simply waiting. And then, when it was either time to go to work together or when I returned, a great big grin completely took over Ramona and filled my heart.
I can be a “hot-headed,” impatient sort of person. Ramona, on the other hand, had the “patience of a saint,” which was well illustrated when we brought home a feisty cairn terrier puppy. To say the least, this puppy was not a team player and she could care less about the rules of the pack. Well that didn’t last for long. Ramona and her daughter, Mojave Rose, made up their minds that this situation had gone far enough and that it was time for them to take some action. Day after day, for what seemed like hours each time, Ramona and Mojave Rose worked in exquisite synchrony, a choreographed dance, teaching the puppy about correct dog etiquette. Repeatedly, without aggression, but with tenacity and patience, they flipped her on her side or back until she submitted. Then they would free the puppy—she would again break their rules, and the dance repeated itself. No ill will, only the drive to teach with the goal of making the pack work, probably based upon a primitive survival need. I often thought that if parents could rear their children in a fashion similar to the way dogs do it with their puppies, the world would be a kinder, saner place.
Being with Ramona has been a timeless experience, each moment core, and as I write I’m finding it progressively more difficult to think of our time together in a linear, chronological fashion. Like a mandala, there are numerous facets of shared space that have no beginning, no ending; the walks, rabbit chasing, the profound gentleness and wisdom of her motherhood, the wait at the door, the many smiles, the leaping into the car, the shrinking from ear cleaning or bath. Speaking of the latter, that’s a full story in and of itself. I could be sitting in a chair, just “thinking” that it was bath time or ear time, and Ramona would be out of the room before I moved. Sometimes I tested this and purposely did not move a muscle yet Ramona would leave the room like a “bat out of hell.” Then I would count out loud to five, and at the last number she would come ever so slowly, head down, one paw at a time, dragging herself, reluctantly ready to face the dreaded event.
Ramona hated water with a passion and I think whatever retriever was left in her and there was some--because she loved to point and chase--was not of the water type. When it rained, Ramona became like prudish lady, very distastefully putting her feet delicately on the wet ground if she HAD to go outside and racing immediately to the door to be let back in. So I found it to be quite a courageous act when we went hiking and came upon a shallow creek which had to be crossed. Ramona stood on the bank, while I, already wet, beseeched her to join me. She hesitated and hesitated, clearly pondering the situation, and then, with one leap of faith, jumped into the water, her eyes open wide, as if to say “What have I gotten myself into.” But in truth, I think she would have done anything I asked of her.
As I let myself wander through the memories of times shared with Ramona, always in the foreground are her eyes, haunting in their expressiveness, their soulfulness, their intelligence. There were so many times I looked at her and had no doubt that she fully understood whatever I was saying. I also believe that there were times she desperately tried to talk back, her mouth opening and closing, attempting to master my language, different than hers, but certainly no more eloquent than the way she communicated to me. Every part of her being spoke--her eyes, the various movements of her body, her tail, her cocked head, her thrilled bark, her straight alert posture, her slump, a mud puddle when we left her, the weight of her head in my hand when I massaged her ears. She was quite a talker all right.
Ramona lived fully until she died, yet the transition toward the end of her days weighs heavily in my heart. When we discovered how ill she had become there were some tough choices to be made if we wanted to try to save her. We knew the prognosis was indeed poor, but if there was a chance for recovery we felt compelled to take it. So, we chose surgery, and then a treatment regime, the side effects of which were about as bad as the illness itself.
During much of that time, Ramona slept, her energy depleted, nauseated from the chemotherapy yet simultaneously insatiable from the prednisone. It was a roller coaster--there was a week or so and then a few days when she seemed to be doing better, when a bit of her energy returned. It was a brief respite from our constant worry accompanied by some hope. I remember going out for a little while, returning home, only to find Ramona, in her green sweatshirt (which she needed to wear to keep warm) standing squarely on all fours outside, smiling and barking her delighted bark. I thought that she must be recovering, but no, shortly after that day, the slippery slope arrived with a ferocious intensity.
In the time of her dying, as she lay, unable to stand any longer, virtually too weak to move, to raise her head, breathing laboriously the last breaths she would ever take, the spirit of surrender emanated from her. She must have known in the deepest portals of her being that her life force was drifting away, and she seemed to make no move to resist the inevitable. We had her euthanized that morning. Part of me regrets doing so, but only because we interrupted a natural process, her dying. I thought, at the time, that we made the decision to insure her suffering wouldn’t be prolonged. Yet, still, I wonder whether it wasn’t prompted by a need to end our suffering since I’m not so sure Ramona was in any pain at the time. Immediately after the lethal injection, she died, our hands stroking her gray black face, and during my final goodbye to her, I planted the last kiss I would ever give her on her now still face. In retrospect, when I die, I would like to emulate Ramona--surrender, let go, float away, held in the presence of love.
The ashes came, in a cedar box with a gold plated piece on it, simply stating, “Ramona, Beloved Companion, July 27,1990-December 9, 1999. As I feel the ashes in my hands, with small shards of Ramona in them, I tear up, experiencing a deep welling of sadness, and a sense of utter disbelief that these ashes were once my dear sweet dog—my Ramona, who, when I left for more than a few minutes, would wait for me, so joyful when I returned. Nothing made her happier than being with me--there was no bribe, no treat, no anything that could match the pleasure of our togetherness. How’s that for love???
A month has passed since her death and I know that Ramona is part of me: her presence lives on in my soul, the memories of her are timeless, as if they might have happened today, five years ago, who knows when--it doesn’t matter. As I sit in my office writing this, I feel her by my side, the warmth of her body, her smell, those soulful eyes. Even though her material being is gone now, I mostly don’t experience her as permanently away--she lives on in me. And I am thankful that she no longer has to suffer, that the weight of her very sick body no longer burdens her. Whether we will meet up again I do not know, but somehow it doesn’t matter, we don’t need to. She’s here, right now, in me.
Yet there are days when the spirit of Ramona isn’t enough. I start to yearn for her physical presence, feel my tears coming, some anger, pain, and the words which fill me are “I WANT HER BACK, I MISS YOU RAMONA, THAT GODDAMN SNAKE, WHERE’S MY FRIEND.” It’s almost unbearable, the wanting her back and the helplessness that there is absolutely nothing I can do to make it happen. I can’t mold those ashes into Ramona. What a lesson: When it comes to loss, we are all at the mercy of the universe. We can scream, rant and rave, howl at the moon, and it makes no difference. We can’t bring our beloved back. And only six weeks earlier, we took Ramona to the beach for the first time and she cavorted like a young puppy, so alive, albeit a bit stiff as is appropriate for a nine year old dog, grinning from ear to ear. I am again reminded about the very thin line demarcating life from death-- that life is a precious gift never to be taken for granted but to be savored in all of its’ various forms. A bittersweet truth manifested by Ramona’s passing.
And so, one final memory: After tending to Ramona constantly for days on end, and after one particularly harrowing day, when I leaned down to do something for her, I felt this wet tongue on my cheek. Undoubtedly it was Ramona thanking me for being so fully there for her. What an honor.
Jessica Grahm
January 9, 2000
To learn about rattlesnake avoidance training for dogs click here.
