“When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions”
— Hamlet, Act IV, Scene V
Boy, howdy. One of my dad’s favorite rallying cries. “Buck up,” he was telling us; “This is just how life is. The only thing to do, when misery threatens to overwhelm you, is pick yourself up off the floor and get on with life.”
The other quote I was thinking about today is “Well, at least things can’t get any worse.”
But I can’t, in good conscience, propagate that one. Those words haven’t crossed my lips since May 2, 2002, and–if I can admit such a thing here–it’s a phrase that ‘triggers’ me a bit, actually causing a short, physically panicky reaction, every time I hear someone else use it.
May 2, 2002, was probably the single worst day–end-to-end–of my life. It began with my neighbors’–and dear friends–house burning to the ground, continued through a gruesome day at work, and culminated in a conversation I had with my boss in which he told me about an incident, in the wee hours of the morning, with his own neighbor. The man’s troubled son had shown up, there was an altercation, and injury, and a subsequent death. My boss’s wife, who was a critical care nurse, was the first responder. Just awful. When I left to go home, I turned in the doorway and said, “well, at least things can’t get any worse.”
At about 10 that night, my stepdaughter called to tell us that my younger stepson had been killed in a car accident, around the time I was driving home. I’d heard the ‘breaking news’ report myself while I was on the road, and–because of the reported location–thought, “please God, don’t let that be Michael.” But it was.
Things can always get worse.
I don’t think anything will ever again capture the sheer, concentrated awfulness of that day. But the past couple of months have been a bit rough: My best friend Andrea. Another friend. Auntie Pat. Franco Harris.
And this morning, I woke up at about 5:30 a.m. to put the dogs out, only to discover that Xena’s back legs had given out, and she couldn’t stand.
The same thing happened to Levi, a year ago, almost exactly.
When such a thing happens to a Great Pyrenees who’s 12 years old (an incredible age), and who weighs well over 100 lbs., there’s really nothing that can be done. So, you think to yourself, “well, at 11 p.m. last night when I brought them in, she was still ambulatory and happy, so best to end it now.”
And so I have.
What a sweetheart she was. She came–in 2011–from a giant-breed rescue outfit on the other side of PA, a piece of the detritus from a divorce in which neither party wanted the dog. She’d been reared in an apartment in Philadelphia (I can’t even), but I think at least the woman in the equation felt some affection towards her. She’d written a very nice note, explaining how Xena liked to go for walks in the park, where she “had so much fun chasing the birds and the squirrels and the rabbits.”
Lord. The absolute last thing you want on a farm is a dog that chases anything that moves. The first time I put her in the field with the sheep, she had the time of her life, and they ended up a soggy, panting, terrified heap in the back of the barn.
It took me about six months of training to break her of that, and when I finally did, I discovered that she had many of the “guard dog” instincts that Levi totally lacked. I grew to trust them both in the fields, although they never worked full-time as guard dogs, and I didn’t expect them to.
They–and I–grew old together. Levi weathered it more gracefully. Well, he was built like a tank. A strong one. Xena had steel plates put in her back legs about five years ago. And the three of us tottered on, until we lost Levi, a year ago.
Xena was bereft for a couple of months, until Odo joined the circus in mid-February:
Here they are. Perhaps my favorite photo of Odo and his beloved Auntie Xena:
A few months ago, given the fact that I could see Xena failing daily, I asked my veterinarian for a recommendation for a puppy who could keep Odo company when the inevitable happened. Because I did not want him left, befeft, when Xena died.
Enter, my sweet Xuxa:
I planned it. I expected it. But it still hurts.
I know I’m not alone in observing, and feeling, the passage of time, of friends, of family, and even of pets. There have been quite a few posts here lately on the topic, just another indicator of the value of this site and its community of friends, all of whom somehow–no matter what else is going on here–seem to unite in supporting each other through life’s joys and sorrows. Thank you, those of you who’ve propped me up over the years. And thank you for allowing me to do my bit for you, as best I am able.
So, it’s a new era, down here on the farm. The age of Odo and Xuxa. Like Xena and Levi, they’re very different. Odo’s guard dog instincts are very strong and surpass his desire to be warm, clean, and dry. He’s usually filthy, and occasionally soaking wet and sometimes (at this time of year) cold. I think these are the times at which he’s happiest.
Xuxa, although she loves to play with her Uncle Odo, prefers to be warm and dry. “Clean” is negotiable, or so I’ve noticed.
I think we’re going to do very well together, now we’ve decided to pick ourselves up off the floor and get on with life.
It’s an ugly, damp, chilly day, down here on the farm. I’ve battened down the hatches (supposed to go down to 2 degrees Fahrenheit tomorrow night). The sheep are in the barn with plenty of hay and a full water trough. All the bird feeders are full. The chickens have several inches of extra bedding, and are well-provisioned. (It would be today that one of the hens was leaning heavily on the coop door and–when I opened it–fell out onto the ground. Nothing like 15 minutes of chasing a highly-agitated fowl around in the cold and slippery mud to get one’s juices flowing. Pretty sure a lesser person would have wrung her neck when she caught her, but I rose above that impulse. Plus–and–I couldn’t face the thought of plucking her before putting her in the stockpot. I hope she’s grateful.)
And yet.
Life goes on. The clock turns and the cycles begin anew. My Christmas cactus is blooming:
And I noticed, at some point when I was crawling around in the muck, that one of my hellebores is about to come into flower:
On this shortest, darkest, day of the year, there is hope.
Light is coming. The Son is coming.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
How I’ll always remember them. Levi on the left. Xena on the right.
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