Showing posts with label Heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heaven. Show all posts

March 30, 2019

My Inkling.

I’m grieving hard. I don’t want to forget. Writing it down helps.

Inkling the Newfoundland dog is in heaven, probably.
I'm not really religious, but he looks so darned cute with these wings.


I love dogs, and I’m especially fond of Newfoundland dogs. I’ve had other dogs before and mourned them at their passing. But Inkling was more than just my dog, he was a support system. I leaned on him because I'm susceptible to so many things including alcoholism, morbid intrusions, and depression. The attention Inkling demanded saved me from spiralling. His solid dependence was my strength. I raised him with the utmost care, using positive reinforcement and force-free training. We went for walks in the forest, and we had daily playtime. I fed him wonderful home-prepared food and treats. I taught him to do some amazing tricks – he was so clever. Inkling never had a punishment, a swat, or a leash jerk. He would not have understood it if I yelled at him. He trusted me. And when he showed signs of fear reactivity to strangers, barking and lunging at them, I rolled up my sleeves, educated myself, and did the work. I counter-conditioned and desensitized him to triggers like strangers, horses, car rides, and the vet. I muzzle-trained him – Inkling loved the muzzle! None of this was easy or quick, but we did it. Our bond deepened, and, over time, he calmed. Some might say I doted on him, but the focus on his needs kept me from veering off the road.

What happened to Inkling? Some yarn got tangled up in some bark and found its way into him. He had emergency surgery to remove the obstruction from his tummy. He didn’t make it. He was only three and a half.

I am plagued with “if only’s” and “what if’s”. I try to keep them at bay but the mind circles round and round, caught in a loop of repeating scenarios where the outcome is different, to make sense of the loss, to cope in some way. One of these scenarios is that, somehow, the yarn from my crochet clung to the back of my trousers and fell away in the garden without me knowing. Thinking this gave me some comfort. I mean, people tell you not to blame yourself, and in my head I know that dogs just eat stuff. But…I had worked so hard to keep him safe, nagging at my kids to pick up their socks, to not bring home gum with xylitol in it, to shut the toilet lid, to keep all the trash bins up out of dog-reach. I had trained Inkling to “drop” and to “leave it” in case we encountered a potential foreign body. In the end I wasn’t able to keep Inkling from ingesting 12 inches of yarn. I never even saw it go in him. I didn’t keep him safe and I will regret this forever.

Everywhere at home, I feel my Inkling. His leash and harness on the footstool; I stop and sniff them when I walk past. Opening the freezer in the laundry room, packed with containers of raw dinners, each one carefully weighed to precisely 2.2 lbs; giant freezer bags filled with home-made treats; tubs of Kong stuffing mixture; and some soft cooked food I prepared for when he would have returned home from the vet because I believed he would live. That freezer is filled with love.

The wooden stand for food and water bowls, the dog bed in my studio, the grooming table in the garage, and the slats of wood that cover up the gaps in the garden fence: my husband made all these things for Inkling. The toys carefully put away, the muzzle I trained him to love, the carpets I’d put down for traction at playtime, so many brushes, and the dog hair in that found its way into everything, including the cookie I’m now munching.

I will miss our quiet bond. The way I communicated my wishes to him, the way I could read him. The subtle nuance of hand gestures, tone of voice, and complex dog signals, the tension of impulse-control and the joy of the release command, together these things made my world good. In the last week of his life, spent in the Intensive Care Unit, Inkling was not triggered. The ICU team were gentle with him, and he allowed all the necessary medical interventions, and there were many, with nary a growl. They could even cuddle him. He was suffering a lot after the surgery but he did not have fear-based anxiety. He was a brave boy and a very good boy.

We were with him. I held Inkling's gigantic head in my hands when the vet gave him the dose, my face down on the floor close to his. I told him we were going to go outside and play. Just like a Newf, he began to snore.

I can’t believe he’s really gone.


June 25, 2012

Good things come to those who wait.

My Grandma once told me that she had warned Grandpa long ago, “I’ll marry you, but I’m not going to be like the other wives. I’m not going to stay at home!” That was back in 1935.



She definitely had her own ideas about how to do things.

During her life she had three children, worked tirelessly as a seamstress, served her community, fought for women's rights, joined and co-founded multiple organizations and schools, volunteered for UNICEF, became a Citizenship Court Judge, got involved in politics, and received countless honors in recognition of her contribution to the Italian community in Montreal – she even met the Pope once!

Grandma was always busy, busy, busy. Instead of calling her “Bisnonna”, the Italian for “Great-Grandma”, my children gave her the special nickname of “Busy-nonna”. And my grandmother’s notion of time was elastic. While she multi-tasked she paid no attention to the clock and often kept people waiting, not least of which was my Grandpa.

My cousin and I were just reminiscing about this. We both remember our grandfather endlessly waiting for our grandmother. He was a patient and gentle person. After several hours of waiting for her to finish talking on the phone/delegating/checking documents/making pasta, he would always raise both hands and in his Italian accent he would say, “Marrrrrry…come on!” And then he would wait some more.

My Grandpa passed away twenty-one years ago; he was in his eighties. My grandmother had held his face in her hands and told him she loved him as he slipped away. She missed him immeasurably, and believed they would be together again in Heaven…

In the meantime, she kept herself busy. There were weddings, great-grandchildren and always with the community engagements. Grandma lived on and on. In my mind, she became Immortal.

Near the end she was brave…so very brave. As I’ve said before, it hurts to grow so old. But even though it was hard for her, she still kissed us, nodded and smiled, told us we were loved. And then, at the amazing age of 97, she died. So my cousin was saying that at last our Grandpa didn’t have to wait for his Maria any longer.

But if I know my Grandma, he may have to wait just another few minutes.


Time is especially elastic in Heaven!

RIP Maria Marrelli.


May 29, 2012

The Devil's Klout.

Your Klout score won't help you be a better person.



If The Devil had a Klout score, what would it be? What would his topics of influence be? And would he be a Thought Leader, a Specialist or a Celebrity?