As I moved through my day yesterday, I realized yesterday’s post wasn’t a detour at all.
I couldn’t see it until after my Amore was home from the animal hospital and in my direct line of sight, however.
Talking about concern for one of my dogs isn’t a detour, as they have been significant parts of my life for the last 12 years. They have also been some of my greatest teachers, and learning from them has been a true blessing.
I thought I detoured from the latest decrease effects and the pump removal saga that is unfolding day-to-day here in the blogosphere. I thought it wasn’t of interest of you to mention.
Thursday I spent a couple of hours in my friend’s pool, so my legs were feeling better. I wanted to share about that, and that I am starting to get used to my new legs and feet. I even tried to write something and kept deleting it.
But I couldn’t NOT share about Amore’s tumor and surgery, as everything in this life seems to be connected.
While my big goofy dog lay on his dog bed, in my range of sight above the computer screen, his dopey face and eyes smile at me. His eyes want to close, but he meets my gaze and opens them again.
He is happy to be home. His brother is happy to have him home. I am happy to have them both back here together.
That’s precisely why it wasn’t a detour.
The big dog over there has a huge part of his body shaved with a large incision down his side. He doesn’t know he isn’t supposed to be anything other than happy to be home.
He isn’t worried about the cytology results or what kind of tumor it was or how extensively the vet had to dig around to remove it. He isn’t even worried about how much it hurts or how much more it will hurt in the morning.
All he knows is that he is happy to be on his dog bed with his pack at the end of the day.
This is a step above adapting to circumstances if you ask me. It is almost like the circumstances are irrelevant as long as there are a few constants—for More’ this includes his brother and me. Sharing about my dog allowed me to see just how he transcended his circumstances—and probably with little effort.
If you ask me how I can smile though pain, keep moving forward so optimistically in spite of the literal and logistical difficulties in doing so, I might have to say it is because I learned it from my dogs.
A couple of years ago when we almost lost Duke, my vet said, “He doesn’t know he’s supposed to feel bad.” What he meant was that dogs haven’t learned what it means to be sick or in pain the way humans have—we are supposed to behave in a certain way to fit that label. Dogs have no use for labels, really.
Yes, a surgery, a tumor, cancer, or a diagnosis of a chronic, progressive illness can change the landscape of our world, but what if we live our lives as if we don’t believe that it has to?
***Thank you all for sending your love and good thoughts yesterday! We felt them, really we did!