I owe a debt of kindness to all living beings. Up in the night to take the flood, I had been reading Goatwalking anyway, but after, on going to bed, concluded what never before occurred, that I desire psychoanalysis to put some understanding on all the mythologies I make of the events of my life. I can think of 50 things I am guilty of, most of which I review practically daily, but never speak, hence do not know their power over me, but almost none of the other sort.
Corbett says in Free and Easy Wandering that women are superior to men in identifying with the herd. This is a positive completely and is what starts this thought off in the building of relationships for survival. What really gets me On Killing and Eating Your Friends is Corbett's tale of the end of his dog Puck, a sheep/cow dog of 15 years service who became arthritic so much...well you know what happens if you have seen it. I have seen it, notably twice, with our two old weathered wise black chows, Jogger and Blessing. We got Blessing to keep Jogger company in his age. He had been a watchdog for gangs in our neighborhood, tied with a chain, and bred several times. I met his owner once over this saga because Jogger kept escaping and coming to us, three separate times, until finally events conspired with our help to keep him. The point is not how he eventually died, a long tale, but how his lifelong devotion to his mistress transformed her life. But she, to be fair, has spent many days and nights with the lonely and afflicted comforting them in death, singing, hand holding. Woman know the heart, Corbett says.
The night before he went Jogger barked on his heated cushioned bed on the porch for hours, it was March, the same bark he greeted her with. Several hours before he left she was seated beside him with her hands on his heart, singing. And she was still there when he died.
I had my chance with Blessing, who choose to be with us from the first time we saw her litter at 8 weeks. Over her 14 years I was not always the friend I was at the end. She got some kind of infection of the head, swelling, from a mockingbird peck we think, and had three surgeries with MRIs to no avail over two years. She began to get seizures from this. I nursed her through 40 of these. She would begin to tremble and quake and I would put my hands on her and tell her I loved her and that it would pass and she would be OK. I got to know these really well. She would come up to me from her rug before them sometimes, feeling the electrical discharge and we would wait it out together. Eventually she couldn't walk without slipping on the polished concrete floor because her nails had gotten so long just from not walking. I put rugs everywhere inside then. She was blind completely in one eye and partly in another so I put night lights up for night vision. When she had to go out she would make a little woof and I would guide her to the door and wait till she would come back in at night. She spent the last night out in a favorite place on the walk, it was a warm March night. I was out before 6 and she smiled at me, but I didn't do what my wife had and sit with her. Then she was gone.
Corbett tells of Puck's last except they were in the wild. He shot him at the base of the skull, "pressed my hand against his body and waited for the spasms and muscular twitching to pass," (46) so he got to know his last moment. I don't think his or my efforts were enough. I think my wife's were. I long to find and give this compassion and comfort for all the living.