A Soft Curiosity

Reflecting on Life and Death Through My Dog's Eyes

The sky faded into a crescent moon above a rocky point near Powell River. I had come to photograph the Northern Lights which were promised to be brighter this second night. But the air carried something unmistakably foul. It was the smell of death, though I couldn’t find the source. I watched Boo’s silhouette follow the landscape. And there, the soft lifeless body of a poor sea lion was resting at the edge of the world. Boo barely paid it any mind. His curiosity only endured a single sniff of a body, once certainly so full of life, once inviting boundless curiosity.

This scene, this quiet moment of life meeting death, took me back to a day etched in my heart. Someone had suggested that once Momo had passed, I should invite Boo over to inspect the scene. It would give him the opportunity to understand what had happened, I was told. But I didn’t realize how much that moment would stay with me. 

Under that hot July sun, next to the flowing river on a friend’s farm, I held the ceremony celebrating Momo’s transition out of this world. Boo was decidedly present. He’s part of our family, and if his presence wasn’t for Momo, or for himself, then it was surely for me.

After Momo took his final breath, after I caught my own breath from choking on my tears, having intimately witnessed a powerful transition from life to death, Boo appeared. He gave Momo’s nose a single, gentle sniff and walked on, untroubled. An indifference that somehow was not cold, but pure.

It’s funny to think that I was expecting more. Perhaps a sadness, or a whimper, or even a glance into my eyes. But he was unbothered, ready to swim, ready for the next adventure.

Boo’s apparent indifference somehow brought me an unexpected comfort. As if the universe, in its vast, unbiased nature, spoke through him. One that gives life and love and joy and takes it away in the same breath without prejudice or discernment for what emotions may come. It’s as if Boo was saying “Of course he’s gone. That’s the way of things. We’ll all be there one day. But today, we’re not.”

Death is unsurprising. What’s surprising is our inevitable prism of reactions. Each emotion mirroring an absolute truth. I loved him. He’s gone. It hurts. I cried so much that day. So how could Boo just walk on? But this isn’t a question of whether dogs feel love the same way we do (that question was explored brilliantly in this article). But a testimony to the truth and certainty of love and loss. 

A part of me wanted Boo to perhaps make a little speech on the day of Momo’s passing. But in truth I don’t have strong emotions about his indifferent final sniff of Momo. I think of it often, as perhaps the way we can soften our approach to adversity or abrupt change. A quaint sniff. A dull curiosity. But nothing impactful enough to derail plans or drain hope. Feel the feelings. Let them pass. The unbiased universe doesn’t give and take away. Nothing is added or removed. It just always is. I’m not a person who believes that everything happens for a reason. I believe it all simply is, and it’s absolutely beautiful, and a lot of suffering comes from forgetting how lucky I am to be a witness. Sometimes, being a witness is as simple as welcoming a soft curiosity.

That night, I stood at that point for about 6 hours in the dark waiting for the Northern Lights, but they did not return. The previous night had already offered the most spectacular display I could imagine, and it felt greedy asking for more. I walked back under the vast, indifferent, starry sky. Drifting to sleep, my mind didn’t once think of the sea lion or the missing Northern Lights. Rather, of the gift of the experience of it all.

Thanks for being here,

Andrew, Yaya, & Boo

---

I made a children’s book about love and life and loss called Find Momo Everywhere.

My print sale actually ends Friday. $10 from each print will go toward Sulala Animal Rescue to support animal welfare in Gaza.

You can support this newsletter by becoming a paid subscriber.