My new children’s book about pet loss and love and nature, Find Momo Everywhere, came out yesterday. Thank you for your messages and support. The following was originally shared in October 2022.
The only limit to the abundance of lessons learned from a dog is time. Most of these lessons, knowingly or not, are extracted predominantly in the most challenging times. To be brief: the puppy and the senior dog are our greatest teachers. The entry and the exit. Any of life’s events could be an example of this: parking on arrival and traffic upon leaving; finding the people you know at a party and saying goodbye; the beginning of a relationship and its sorrowful ending. Beginnings and endings, without doubt, shape us the most.
I introduced Boo to the family at the end of 2019. His adoption was brought on by Momo’s age. Momo was showing signs of slowing and was undergoing all kinds of therapies to help with his increasingly stiffening joints. I found a friend for him, to keep him young, I thought. Training a puppy while caring for a senior dog was a rare intersection of young and old. The overlap of a puppy’s life with an aging dog proved one thing to me: the senior dog takes priority.
By late 2020, Momo was showing his age even more. Both his dementia and arthritis were asserting their permanence, and they made a devious pair. We avoided beaches, rocky areas, stairs, and difficult hikes – he would be out of commission for a few days after any of these feats were tempted. Swimming, his favourite activity, and the activity that was best for his joints, was especially challenging upon entry and upon exit. Rocky, and even sandy beaches became difficult endeavours, making swimming in natural waters a near impossibility short of my carrying him in. Entries and exits.
His joints did find reprieve in indoor swimming pools. He became close with Hedy, a loving and generous physical therapist for dogs. Think Natasha Lyonne meets Ms Frizzle. She would bring him gifts and love him effortlessly on our twice-weekly warm water swims. Momo’s many vets supported his aging joints with laser treatments, cartrophen injections, supplement recommendations and genuine care. Seeking care tends to provoke an outward reach toward community. I built the community of support we needed and lived in Vancouver where all of these amenities were within reach.
It was the dementia, in the end, that broke my heart. I would sometimes wake up to find Momo facing the corner of a room, completely lost. Occasionally, he’d do this while awake, seemingly unsure of how he ended up wherever he was. Because of this, he had to wear a life vest to swim. I can’t deny that it was also endearing. Helplessness has its own direct line to our hearts. Perhaps it’s why we adore these dependents to begin with, as they’d be incapable without the help. Dogs of any age are better with us, and we’re better with them.
The journey of losing Momo was one that made me intimate with the truth and value of embracing the unknown, and accepting impermanence. Questions like “how do I know it’s time?” and “is he happy?” were ghosts that drifted me asleep and jerked me awake. The final answer, of course, is that these questions have no answers, and may never. I can still vividly recall the dream that I had that nudged me into believing that it was time, a sign like this was all I needed to recognize the truth. I was dreaming on my dad’s couch. Momo was slowly sinking in a lit pool at night. I dove in, and gently brought him to the surface. On the poolside, he looked at me and said “I appreciate what you’re doing, but I’m ready to go now.” This concoction of surrender and sympathy guaranteed that I’d wake up with a sobbing wet face. I did wake up, and my eyes were wet. He was laying on the floor next to me in the dark living room, grunting, hardly asleep. I knew it was time.
If a plant feels in danger of dying, it flowers, sometimes more than it ever has. It produces seeds in a last ditch effort to sow its next generation and to perpetuate the continuation of its genes. A biological imperative . My dad told me about an Ash tree living in his back yard which had undergone an invasion of the Emerald Ash borer beetle. That year, he said the abundance of seeds it produced was unlike anything he’d seen before. His eavestroughs were flooded, his yard was covered, his ditches were filled, and the tree never saw life again. At the end of our lives we produce flowers. Ceremonial flowers, yes, but aging prompts bouquets of memories and stories that carry us back to the moments that shaped us and adorn our now. A last ditch effort to hopefully cement these moments. A biological imperative.
Firsts and lasts are energetically charged, they hold significance. Momo’s last book. The last photo I took for @momosface. The last flower he peed on (Viper's Bugloss). The last stick he chewed on, presently travelling with me as I travel, I wedged it behind one of the walls in my van in the insulation.
Momo’s aging body brought about a theme of balance: pain and medication; pleasure and refuge; holding on and letting go. He offered an opportunity to slow down, a skill I’m still learning. I’m still harvesting the fruit of countless other seeds he planted, I’m sure I will be for a long time. I think we could all make a list of the ways our dogs enlightened us. I think we should.
I miss Momo. Simultaneously, I love the dogs in my life today. I wouldn’t have it any other way. When we think about love, we think about positive emotions. Happiness, excitement, and laughter might come to mind. You might disagree, but I think love is more sophisticated than this. Love does not prioritize joy. I think love includes fear, sadness, anxiety, and a lot of other emotions we tend to avoid. Don’t avoid them. Make room for sadness – it’s part of the multifaceted truth that is love. It’s part of our experience
Take care,
Andrew, Yaya, Boo, and Momo
Ohhhh your post made me cry. We also lost our border collie Momo (moira) on 1/4/2022. She was 17 and had dementia like your Momo. But she lives on in the memories of our many camping, boating, fishing, skiing, hiking adventures she took us on. What a fantastic, smart, sweet girl she was. It is hard to say goodbye. Thank you.
I love the "flowers" we dog parents share with each other about our dogs who have died. All it takes is one person, in this case you, Andrew, to share your story, and it prompts us to share ours, even only in a comment! My boy Eddie also had arthritis and dementia, and he also had degenerative myelopathy -- and even though I will always feel his absence, I talk to his photo sometimes and I try to focus more on the amazing things about him, like how I was so lucky to get to be his mom for 7 years, his handsome face, soulful eyes, soft fur, sweet demeanor, and hilarious snow-zoomies. Perhaps not my favourite person to quote, but I heard this years ago when Dr. Phil was helping a grieving mom on the Oprah Winfrey show and it still resonates -- to paraphrase: instead of focusing on the day they died, celebrate the event of their life.