Kobe Bryant, his daughter, and his friends died yesterday. I’m struck with how someone at the height of their promise and possibility with every advantage can suddenly be taken like that. It takes one moment, one phone, one word for life to change suddenly and there’s no going back.
If I’m honest part of my emotional response is personal. I’m still recovering physically, mentally, and emotionally from a serious car accident that could easily have ended my own life. I found myself thinking of a poem I published in The Irrational David: The Power of Poetic Leadership called “Good Dog.” (If you’re interested you can buy a signed copy through this site: https://thalassaconsulting.com/shop/the-irrational-david-the-power-of-poetic-leadership/)
There are two stories behind the poem. I was inspired by the deeply strange book of Ecclesiastes. Qoheleth, the named author of the work, laments that there’s nothing on earth that really lasts and gives meaning. Like Siddhartha in Herman Hesse’s novel Qoheleth searched for meaning in power, in wealth, through love and sex- nothing really endured. But then he comes to this existential insight. Yes, nothing lasts and all of us will make our way to Sheol, the grave, eventually. However, all the more reason to enjoy the lives we are given, to drink beautiful wine, and to care for the people closest to us while we may.
The more obvious story is taking my 16 year-old black lab to Mount Hood to put her down. I know it’s disturbing to some that I found myself needing to do this myself rather than taking her to vet. I can’t explain why I felt that need- just that I did. She and I had many adventures on that mountain, and every time I’m there now, I think of her still.
My poetry is meant to be heard. Here’s a link to me reading “Good Dog”: https://soundcloud.com/user-564476144/good-dog
A living dog is better than a dead lion
So the Teacher tells us
But even a dead dog will do
When the holy wants a word with you
I lifted her tired body into the gray car
Onto the seat she used to take with one leap
White muzzle on black fur
Her sad brown eyes wondering why
Why were we driving to the mountain
On that frozen February day?
The cold snow, uncaring, unsparing
To her house-sensitive paws
Reminding me of South Sister’s scoria
Excoriating her pads and claws
And the withering look she gave me
When she waded into the relief
Of Moraine Lake, silently glaring:
“How could you do this to me?”
I led her through the frost-filled firs
Feeling the weight of the Ruger in my pack
The heavier weight of knowing two sets of tracks
Were going in, but only one back
In a cathedral of trees I laid her down
And gathered her into my arms
I saw the bed she peed in Boston
Right in the middle
The stick she shared with Paggo
And the bone my boy would borrow
As I told her, “Good dog. Good dog.”
At sixteen now she was in pain
Every minute of every day
I knew what needed to be done
And felt this was the only way
I don’t know if there’s a heaven
Full of Christmas shoes to ruin
Hebrew Bibles to chew
And Jersey rabbits to chase
But I do know this:
She ate her food with satisfaction
Drank from the toilet given any distraction
And enjoyed life with the people she loved
All the days of her vain life she was
Given under the sun
And then, red from black spilling out onto white
I held her, leaning against the frozen log
My hot tears filling her closing eyes,
“Good dog. Good dog.”