I was once a child of the 1960’s, which was not a popular
place in the world back in the day.
I lived on a commune with about 10-20 people and 10-15
dogs, give or take, depending on the litter of puppies of any given
season.
A rabidly right wing neighbor shot eight of my dogs, and later a
posse of policemen swept the commune, thinking that we would
be an easier target without eight dogs to complicate their mission.
No drugs were found.
My neighbor who killed my dogs years later embezzled 8 million dollars
from the Republican Party, and his family left him in disgust.
Meanwhile it took me twenty-one years to get another dog, my beloved Mukunda.
We just celebrated his 10th birthday.
At intervals in that twenty-one year period, a dog would
come into my life, nudging me to deal with the loss of my eight dogs.
Only one was remotely successful.
I had a short tumultuous relationship with a man who had an
old beagle named Wild Dog. One day, he dropped her off and asked
me to take care of her, twelve years after the ending of the commune years. And
I agreed that I would.
Because of her advanced age, I took her for many short walks.
I remember time slowing down.
I remember her appreciative glances my way, and i felt once
or twice the great wisdom she emanated from every cell of
her tiny old body. I did not want to give her up, knowing
the day would soon come when she would go back with her
master.
I remember the flash of memory surfacing pertaining to my commune dogs
Alphy and Das and all their noble offspring, and how they and
Wild Dog were dog/Gods come to sweep us away into eternity.
But her master reclaimed her and I forgot about my feelings of
love for this very dear soul, as if forgetting a very
important dream.
It is in remembering the dream that our everyday
life loses the mundane quality of reality.
As I saw on a bumper sticker recently: “Reality is for people
who lack imagination.”
In this beautiful lush spring season, when green suddenly bursts forth
from mud and brown earth, we can practice bringing that tone into our hearts for
expression.
Mukunda reminds me of green even though he has a red head,
just like mine. Or is mine just like his?
We are both green souls.
The cardinal is red yet she sings, surrounded by the
profound green of the forest reflected on the great Conestoga River
that rolls past our house.
The river is also red after long periods of rain. And at night,
moon light filters through mist, reflected on dark river, as the
red fox yelps her urgent message.
And Mukunda barks to go out and find her.
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A Pit Bull washed up onto our Conestoga River Bank, one
day.
He was carefully sewn into a moving blanket, weighted
down by brick and concrete block, and thrown into the river
points south of our home. The dog had deep tooth marks on his neck, and
his right shoulder has been torn apart.
He was killed in a dog fight, professional or domestic.
Are there professional dog fights in our town? I surmised that there are–and
that the killed dogs are dumped into the town’s drinking water supply.
I wrote a letter to the editor of our local newspaper, accusing
the town of ignoring this issue.
The Pit Bull was given a proper burial, down in the
pasture along the river.
We gave the fella a name: Old Mac, the Conestoga Pit Bull. He was treated
badly in his life, was taught to be mean, to kill, to tear up smaller
animals than himself.
Perhaps he would have killed Mukunda.
But it was people who created the monster who rolled up on the bank of
the meandering Conestoga.
He came to us, so we could think about him, feel deeply in our heats the
travesty of his existence. We will muse about this every time we walk
by the pile of rocks that top his tiny memorial, overlooking Canadian
Goose habitat, squawking Blue Heron taking flight and skimming the river
surface, and bird song music, also the yelp of Red Fox everywhere
surrounding him.
So he found a final resting place where all of us who pass
can ponder his existence.
How does Old Mac, the Conestoga Pit Bull, fit into our
great theme of freedom when he was used and exploited in his
short life?
And in his death, he made the mistreatment of innocent
animals into a public statement.
Mukunda regards Old Mac’s grave site with a seriousness and an aura of
contemplation and reverence. He looks at the grave for two to three
minutes at a time, and therefore, so do I.
Mukunda now realizes that bad things happen to dogs. Before this time,
he did not know. His innocence has been transformed to worldly ways.
Since then, he listens to me more consistently, wants to please me
more constantly instead of proving his will over mine. And to think Old
Mac could teach me to be more humble as we place one foot in front of the
other, passing his memorial every day.
Dog is man’s best friend. The dog is not returned the unconditional
love they hold for our supposedly superior species.
Yet even when they are abused, they teach us love.
Even when they die, they live on.
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Kate Loving Shenk is a writer, healer, musician and the creator
of the e-book called “Transform Your Nursing Career and Discover
Your Calling and Destiny.” The book is designed to stimulate
nurses to love their work and to prevent on-the-job-burnout.
Click here to find out how to order the e-book:
http://www.nursingcareertransformation.com
Check out Kate’s Blog: http://nursehealers.typepad.com
http://mukunda22.powerfulintentions.com
https://secretsofthenursehealers.wordpress.com
And the Lens: http://www.squidoo.com/katelovingshenk
http://www.squidoo.com/thinkriches
http://www.mukunda22.powerfulintentions.com/forum/thinkandgrowrich
http://progressives4pennsylvania.blogspot.com
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Secrets Of The Nurse Healers, A Blog, By Kate Loving Shenk 