Tag: dogs

Steps to Reduce Animal Suffering, Part 1: Dismantle the Patriarchy.

Laura Wild2 Comments

Seven cats and two dogs were beyond my help in the states of Texas and Louisiana. Using plastic bags and scraps of paper, sometimes cardboard boxes scavenged from nearby trashcans, I did my best to at least move them out of the road. I don’t really know why I felt so compelled to do so. Maybe because it forced me to acknowledge them, instead of just continuing on down the road like the very cars who had taken their lives. The act of carrying their bodies, many of them still warm, slowly but surely caused me to become used to the experience. I was their pallbearer by default; absent from their lives, yet somehow profoundly impacted by their deaths. Maybe I should have left them where they died, so that others would see them and slow down or drive more carefully. Unfortunately, the ammount of roadkill I saw on a daily basis in the rural South convinced me that most drivers were too entitled to care.

Entitelment is the word that comes to mind because of the numerous degrading experiences I have had as a female cyclist. I have been driven off of the road by several men in trucks, had thick plumes of exhaust deliberately blown in my face by countless men in trucks, and have received immeasurable unwanted attention from men both in and out of their trucks. It isn’t annoying, it is far past that- it is terrifying. If I have to watch one more man in a truck run over the body of a dead cat in the road I am going to explode. It is apparent that many drivers have no problem gambling with the life of a cyclist simply because we have the audacity to share the road with them, so it is not surprising that they seem to have complete disregard for the lives of animals on the road, too. I imagine it is incredibly painful to get hit by a car; and believe me, I have had plenty of time to imagine it. Sadly, I know these drivers are not stopping to check that the animals they hit are not suffering, because they can’t even be bothered to step on their brakes for the few seconds it takes to safely pass a cyclist.

This breaks my heart. I feel so overwhemed by the amount of animal suffering that I have witnessed in the past few months that I am completley exhausted. A recent conversation I had with a man in Alabama as I removed one of the aforementioned cats from the road sums up the type of blatant ignorance that I am referring to when I say “Southern Entitlement.” He wanted to know why I didn’t stop to move all road kill (squirrels, raccoons, armadillos, etc) from the road. I told him there were simply too many. He responded with the same level of stupidity that I encounter when people accuse me of being cruel to vegetables after finding out I am a vegetarian, and said, “Then you aren’t a real animal lover, are you?”

Oh yes, I am a real animal lover, and I am sick of that part of my charachter being used to discredit my rationality. It is not irrational to be kind, and yet I find myself constantly having to justify myself as an activist to much older people who think that being “middle of the road” is the only way to be a realist. What part of being a feminist, animal-loving liberal activist makes me weak? Could it be that all of these qualities challenge the patriarchy?

When it comes to understanding why a certain demographic seems to be at the root of these problems, I find myself constantly trying to avoid stepping on toes. So here’s my obligatory disclaimer; not all men are careless towards animals and creepy to young women, of course I know this! It has been my beleif for a long time that the patriarchy is nearly as detrimental and limiting to men as it is to women. In fact, it is the gentle, kind, and respectful men in my life that cause me to be so concerned with the toxic (and fragile) form of masculinity that is rampant in the South, particularly among far right-wing conservatives. How many of the trucks that drove me off the road were sporting Trump/Pence stickers? 3 out of 4. That seems incredibly relavent to me, so much so that I don’t think I need to moderate my opinions on the subject of male agression and the negative affect it has on the welfare of animals.

The latest stray puppy that I had the pleasure of rescuing from the middle of nowhere was a tiny brown pitbull named Hazel (see below). She, like many of the rescue dogs I have met in my personal life and on the Southern Tier, was terrified of men. How she developed this fear is only to be guessed at; maybe she was being molded into a fearsome watchdog, or physically abused in any number of ways. Her condition was made worse by the other men in my company when I discovered her, whose suggestions for her welfare involved throwing cookies at her, yelling at her, and slamming the van doors to scare her away. She was growling and appeared to be agressive, especially when the sherrif showed up and tried similar tactics to wrangle her. It wasn’t until they all left, and the women on my cycling team were left alone with her, that she emerged from her hiding place, wagged her tail, and let us rub her belly.

The agressive display of dominance that some men feel obligated to express could have cost this sweet pup her life. The sherriff told me that if he took her to the shelter and she growled, she would be euthanized. Another rescue I called said all pounds in the area were under orders to put down every pitbull they receive. It is evident to me that improper treatment is what causes this particular breed to become agressive in the first place. That was obvious yesterday as I watched Hazel cower in fear under the shelter of our company van.

Only by a stroke of luck did I come into contact with an organization called Lucky Puppy Rescue, and that is exactly what Hazel was when I brought her there. Run by two women who care for about fifty dogs out of the kindness of their hearts, I was incredibly releived when they were able to take this puppy in. I could see right away that the dogs in their care were given the treatment they deserved; they roamed freely together in harmony, were well behaved and trained, and hardly barked when I arrived with their new playmate. Almost all of them were rescued strays, and almost half of them were pitbulls. That sounds like a miracle to me.

Below is a picture of the owners of this rescue, Teri and Becky, with a few of their dogs. They are running their rescue solely on donations, so if you are able please help them out, I can’t think of a worthier cause. I have also included a link to their webpage.

I leave this entry on somewhat of a sour note, as I try to remain optimistic about the conditions I have seen in the deep South. I can indeed confirm that chivalry is not dead, but neither is racism, sexism, classism and homophobia. However, a lot of innocent animals are. While this reality is true in every part of the country, this area seems to have an uneven distribution of ignorant and entitled people.

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Visit theluckypuppy.org to donate.

 

Rescuing Jack: The pup who redefined carelessness.

Laura Wild2 Comments

Carefree; the state of being free from anxiety or responsibility, one of my favorite words. As I grow older its meaning seems to become less and less relevant to my life, but I am eternally craving the feeling. I have always associated it with being calm and optimistic, never careless, never oblivious. Last Thursday, however, I learned that even being carefree comes with a price.

As usual, the morning was cool and refreshing. An electric midnight storm had left a puddle of water around my tent, but under my covers I had stayed warm and dry. I love night’s like that; when I don’t have anything to worry about, at least nothing besides my own comfort. I have learned time and time again just how fleeting they can be, and yet I always seem to take them for granted. This one, however, I savored; all I had on my agenda for the day was a mild, secluded bike ride. As soon as the sun rose to burn all of the moisture away, the atmosphere became immediately hot, as it does every day in the desert. It was around 10am when I met the animal that would take away my peace of mind for many nights to come.

He was just another homeless dog; a swift silhouette on the horizon, prancing the abandoned roads in search of something to eat. Down here, trash is not hard to come by, and maybe that’s why he wasn’t emaciated. I got off of my bike, all too aware that if I flew by him I would be a perfect target to chase, and started speaking in a soothing voice, not wanting to inspire an attack. I know this fear is just extra weight that I carry with me for no reason at all, but I’ve always been especially cautious around these types of animals.

Most Southern Tier cycling websites suggest riders have pepper spray at the ready, because many of the dogs in the South are raised solely as watch dogs. I don’t do that because I can’t imagine ever bringing myself to actually use it, so maybe that’s why I am always on edge. Anyway, it goes without saying that this dog was different. He was shy, but he was irresistably sweet. This pup was so tired that when I so much as gave him the acknowledgement that he had gone without for so long, he immediately fell into a deep sleep beside me, exausted fom god knows what he was doing.

Dozens of flies swarmed the cuts on his face, as fire ants went about building a nest only a few feet from us. He didn’t stir. After drinking the rest of my water, I think he finally felt comfortable enough to rest. With his head on my knee, we waited under the shade of a billboard for hours while animal control drove out to us.

I feel like calling animal control was my biggest mistake. This sweet animal had done nothing but kiss me, and trust me, and wag his tail at me. Still, when the officers came to put him in their truck, they were not gentle. I can only imagine how scared he must have been in that dark metal box that they put him in, and for good reason. So many abandoned animals take their last rides in that truck, before they spend their final days in empty cages. That is exactly where this dog was headed, and I knew that. The next day, when I went to the shelter to “bail him out”, I saw for myself just how bleak this particular shelter was.

I spent the next 24 hours conflicted with the idea of trusting the animal shelter that he had been taken to, or taking matters into my own hands. Several calls to the shelter helped me make my mind up pretty fast, as they could not assure me that he wouldn’t be euthanized after his 48 hour grace period was up. Las Cruces, New Mexico is so overwhelmed with stray dogs that only the cream of the crop stand a chance of being adopted. The ones that can’t be taken in are unspoken of, and disposed of.

I’ve been to kill shelters before, and they are always terrifying. Rows and rows of man’s best freind, all organized by breed and temperment, barking and howling their unheard negotiations for freedom. Each snatched from a world that did not value them, only to be taken to an institution that does not have room for them. At least half of them are pure breeds, whose parents were not spayed and neutered and whose owners were not able to care for them. One might blame this problem on poverty, but I blame it on ignorance.

There are too many dogs in this world, and too many carefree people. Puppy mills, pet stores, and even your average neighborhood backyard-breeders all contribute to a system that leaves hundreds of thousands of dogs homeless, mistreated, and ultimately sentanced to death. Those who call themselves animal lovers should have no tolerence for the breeding industry whatsoever. If the suffering of companion animals is to end we can no longer respond to the ignorance of our friends with a smile and a nod, as I have done for far too long.

In the end, I did find the silver lining in this hellstorm of a situation. Jack, the name given to this sweet dog by his new owners, eventually found his American dream. It wasn’t easy, and the hardest part by far was finding a few kind hearted people who were willing to advocate for my cause. Those people were not the officers who responded to my call, nor the workers at the shelter who only gave me a several hour window to drive him out of state, but the handful of strangers who offered to give me a ride when I did not have a car. The woman who helped me keep Jack from being attacked by another pack of stray dogs, and my always proactive mother who has a way of making anything possible. The last to help me were the real heroes of this saga; Jenny, whose name always seems to come up in my blog posts because she is always willing to go out of her way to do something kind for someone else, and my aunts Jean and Carrie, who are finally giving Jack the secure, forever home that he deserves.

Jack’s story is one that I’ll never forget; it’s exciting, it’s true, it has a happy ending. It’s the story of a puppy who escaped unknown horrors and still managed to be sweet enough to make it into a loving home. His is also a story of privilage, and it’s the story of a really messed up animal welfare system. I can’t stop thinking about what a miracle it is that this one got a second chance, and how lucky he is that he was born a german shepherd, and not a pit bull. It brings me so much happiness to know that he is safe and taken care of, but even that knowledge is not enough to make me feel optimistic. The truth is, I am heartbroken. This experience has exposed the truth of the overwhelming amount of animal neglect that this country enables. I wish I could sugar coat this, I wish I could serve the reality of this problem to you under a blanket of encouragement and hope, but I can’t. I can only add this to the extensive list of reasons it feels like America has forgotten the South.

I still battle with the image of all the other animals I left behind; the ones who weren’t desirable, the ones who will never be adopted. The ones who will spend their final days on a bed of concrete, and whose lives are of so little significance that they will soon be forgotten. This is the kind of thing that haunts me, the kind of thing that leaves me feeling hopeless. We saved one; that matters. It matters, but it’s not nearly enough.

I’m a softie, it’s true, and I’m sure I love dogs a little bit more than most. The ones that I have had in my life have brought me out of some of my darkest places, and I will never pass up an opportunity to help bring them out of theirs. The puppy that I lost over a year ago still makes appearences in my dreams, her absense still puts a knot in my throat when I return home, and the memory of her final days will still pull at my heart strings until the end of time. I don’t think any of that is too weird or too extreme. I don’t want people to think that my reaction to finding this stray dog in the desert is too weird or extreme either; it shouldn’t be a big deal, it should be normal.

Adventures like this bike trip sometimes make me feel like I am barreling through space at lightning speed; I just keep going and going and I never want to stop. I’ve seen adventure affect many people the same way, and I don’t think it’s necessarily a good thing. Even after everything I have just said, I have yet to admit that it was actually hard for me to stop for this helpless dog. Knowing how many homeless dogs there were around me, I was ready to cast him off as “just another one.” I’m so glad I didn’t. I’m so glad I stepped on the brakes for what amounts to the blink of an eye in my life, because it had a profound effect on the rest of his. I’ve just breached Texas, and I can only imagine how many more stray animals I am bound to come across. I can only dream that the ones I stop for will be able to live the carefree life that Jack gets to.

 

 

 

Adopting a new dog and recovering from loss.

Laura Wild2 Comments

Of all of the thoughts that went through my mind immediately after Mabel’s death this past May, the last fall we spent together wasn’t one of them. In fact, I didn’t really think about any of our lasts; not the last bath I gave her, or the last walk we took, or the last time she rolled in a mud puddle after a rain. Maybe it didn’t feel right to warp those moments into something they weren’t, because when they happened they weren’t ‘the last time’, they were just ordinary moments. I had no idea that they would never happen again, and I think that’s part of the beauty of them. Similarly, I had no idea this time last year that I was missing my last chance to experience Autumn with Mabel, because I was on my bike trip. I don’t have any memories of her in September and October of last year, and because of that it is particularly odd to come home to a new dog and a completely different atmosphere.

I’ve tried to express before what an important role Mabel played in our family; she was a source of happiness for the entire household, and almost always the center of attention. I always thought she was an exceptional dog, and maybe every pet owner feels that way, but she was the definition of an infectious personality. For some reason her overwhelming presence seemed to be amplified in the fall, maybe because everything seems a little bit more vibrant right before it fades away. Mabel was no exception to this rule; she was vibrant and alive up until the last minute. She remained a puppy for all three years that she was here, and to say that we miss her happiness and innocence is a huge understatement. My home has not been the same without her in it, at least not until recently. The most healing thing for our family was actually something that I least expected, and that was welcoming a new dog into our home.

Her name is Gus, and she is one of the silliest looking dogs I have ever seen. Her unconventional name seems only appropriate for her uniquely adorable appearance and equally unique personality. I had so much insecurity about getting a new dog, but because I don’t live at home anymore it wasn’t really my decision. It is a relief to say that my parents made the right choice, and rescuing a dog from Oglala Pet Project (the same place we rescued Mabel) already feels just as beneficial to us as it must be to Gus.

Even though the atmosphere seems to have been lightened by another bubbly personality, I know it will be a long time before the heaviness of Mabel’s death will disappear completely. There is a kind of pointlessness to such a premature loss of life that it is hard to move on without feeling some obligation to hold onto her. I don’t think anybody in my family wants to let go of Mabel, and maybe we never will. It’s not hard to remember her, and any time I walk alone I think of her walking beside me, occasionally nudging my hand with her wet nose. It’s funny how different smells evoke such vivid memories, and with the smell of autumn I am reminded of her auburn coat in the breeze, and her pink nose pointed in whatever direction it was blowing.

For now, maybe sharing a few stories and pictures of her is the only way I can relieve some of the pressure I feel to remember her. Though some time has passed I still think about her every day, and I have come to realize that there is little I value more than the uncomplicated beauty she possessed. Maybe that is the aspiring artist in me talking, I don’t know. But, as dogs do, she lived and loved unconditionally. I think these photos capture her blissful spirit, and I only wish that more people had gotten the chance to meet her.

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Dear Mabel

Laura WildLeave a comment

On a Tuesday afternoon on March 19, 2012 I held you in my arms for the first time, and I was in love with you. It wasn’t just the way you felt as you rested your head on my shoulder, or the sweet smell of your carefully chosen, organic cherry blossom shampoo; I had been in love with the idea of you for longer than I could remember. You were a puppy, and I was, for the first time in my life, a mommy. That was 3 and a half years ago.

I had chosen the name Mabel for a couple of reasons, primarily because it was vintage and adorable but also because of it’s meaning- lovable. And you were just that, there is no disputing it. Even then, when your sharp teeth were the cause of more than a few scars and your early morning energy bursts had me up at 5:30 every morning. At the time I may have said differently, but deep down I really didn’t mind. I had just turned 16, and winter was over. The loneliness I had felt after the loss of my dog Gigi was easier to bear with your presence, and you made me smile every day.

Through the Summer of 2012 your eyes were green and soft, they twinkled in the early morning sunlight that you often basked in as well as the twilight. Sometimes, in the event that you refused to come inside after a long day of exploring in the grass, even the moonlight could make them gleam. I would chase you around the yard with purpose at first, but as you began to slow down I would too, because I wanted to savor the image of you beneath the stars. There was a twinkle in your eye that was unmistakable, especially when you were playing like that. As you got older it never went away, and I never failed to notice it, the way you would make such sincere eye contact with me when we were together. Thank you for that, baby; it’s one of the things I miss most.

That first year was not without it’s share of accidents and miniature emergencies; your affinity for ceaseless exploration led you into a few dangerous situations. You ate anything in sight. That included tubs of butter and cool whip left too close to the edge of the counter, as well as a plethora of toxic plants in our garden. We ended up getting rid of them when we found out how fond of them you were, but not before we took you to the hospital for a precautionary stomach pumping one summer day. I’m sorry you had to go through that; I just wasn’t about to take any chances. You meant too much to me, to all of us. You were our best friend.

After evening walks around the neighborhood, where you would roll onto your back for any stranger that approached, we would return home exhausted by the hot, setting sun. I loved the way you smiled when you panted, and the way you licked your light brown nose just to keep it cool. The fun really began when me and your other mommy, my mommy, brought you home a pink plastic pool from Walmart. You would lay in it as we filled it up, and then splash in and out of it in a fury of excitement, never failing to jump on us and leave muddy paw prints on our clothes. We didn’t care; no, we cherished it. You were a water dog after all, with webbed feet and red fur that curled when it was wet, and you made sure everybody knew it.

You were meant to go swimming in lakes and streams, you were meant to go on trail runs and camping trips. I’m sorry we never made it that far; every time I see a calm, empty pond or stream I picture you in it, rolling around and swimming out just deep enough to reach a stick that I might have thrown. We tried it; we got you a life jacket and everything, but I guess we didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t trust you to come back to me when I called, so I didn’t want to give you the freedom of being off leash. I guess we’ll never know how well you might have done.

Puppy school was not your forte, but you were a star student in the personality department, and nothing short of the class clown. There was not a mean bone in your body. Not unlike other border collie mixes, you could not contain your excitement when new people came to the house, and it was always a hassle to keep you from jumping up on them. A hassle, however, that I was proud to partake in, because you were just like me. You were wild, Mabel, and even though you had to be kept on a leash, I’d like to think you felt free.

You acted that way anyway, as you began to grow into a teenager. You transitioned from your puppy collar to your sunflower collar, the one that matched my tattoo so that we could be twins. And so began your adolescent year- the one filled with ripped up couch cushions and tipped over laundry baskets, in which you would hide your rawhide bones when you thought nobody was looking.

By that time your eyes were a rich gold, with a bright outer ring that I can’t even describe. The patch of white fur on your chest was now only a handful of out of place hairs hidden inside your shiny amber coat. Your tail was fluffy and so were your soft, velvety ears. You were breath taking, I hope you knew it, too. When you would roll on the floor in an expectant upturned pose, I was given no choice but to give in to your cuteness and give you a belly rub. That’s when I would whisper in your ear, as if it was some sort of secret, just how truly beautiful you were. God, you must have heard me.

In the winter you became a snow dog, and you would perch on the back porch in a snow drift throne, watching the forest and letting the snowflakes fall into your vibrant hair. Your walks were shorter then, but you seemed to make the most of them. I wish I had walked you further, sweet girl, and I wish I had joined you out there in the snow. You seemed to know something I didn’t, you seemed to see something out there in the woods that nobody else could see. This year when it snows I will be out there, I promise, and I will be looking into the forest like you did, and I’m sure I’ll see you. It wouldn’t be a surprise; these days, everywhere I look I can picture your big, furry body, healthy and alive.

Sometimes at night I would hear your nose against my door, just checking to see if you could push it open. When you couldn’t, you would sneak around the side of the house and stick your nose out of your doggy door, letting all of the cool air inside without a care in the world. I know, because I would spy on you out of my bedroom window, when I was sure you were going outside to wake the whole neighborhood up with your barking or chase off an evil squirrel. It was a relief to see you like that, so peaceful and calm, with the heat of the house keeping your body warm but the aroma of the outdoors keeping your nose occupied. Or maybe it was your body that was keeping the house warm but either way, you had it all figured out, didn’t you?

I would rarely let you inside my room but when I did, you made yourself right at home. You didn’t like to sleep on a bed though; you preferred the cold tile floor in front of the fire place, where you were close enough to the big front window to catch the sunrise every morning. It rose for you, baby girl, and it still does, every day. But you don’t rise for us anymore. You went to sleep, and you never woke up.

The highlight of this last year was the contemplative walks we took almost every evening. You would spot me as I rounded the corner down the street at the end of a run, and be waiting for me expectantly when I came home exhausted and out of breath. For the first few blocks you would pull me along, as I tried to catch my breath with every step. Eventually our walks turned into a way for us to escape together, and you would be lost in the smells of the world in the same way that I would get lost in the music on my iPod. We were in the zone, you and me, but we were never alone. Every so often you would look back at me with those heavenly eyes, and I would smile. We were a team Mabel, and we owned that neighborhood. I miss you.

When I went away on my bike trip I was bragging you up a storm, and missing you more than I ever thought I would. Coming home to you was one of the only things that kept me from getting pulled into that post-trip let down that I had been warned about. With you I had something to look forward to every day.

I’m so sorry you never got to come home again after we took you to the hospital on May 7th, but we were all so sure that the veterinarians would be able to make you better. I’m sorry it took me so long to notice how sick you were, and I’m sorry I didn’t spend the night with you when you were too dehydrated to come home. I’m sorry for whatever made you sick, whether it was weed killers or kidney disease or something else that you got into. And I’m sorry we couldn’t save you Mabel, I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do. I would give anything to hold onto you for 10 seconds more, but on the evening of May 9th I was more desperate to end your suffering than I was to have you with me. Thank you for holding on long enough for me to be there when it happened.

The house is so different without you in it. Summer has come, and the garden is blooming, and the seeds we sprinkled on your grave have already taken root. The forest rarely stirs, but when it does the wildlife always seems to walk solemnly by your grave. Sometimes I hear the neighborhood dogs howling and I wonder if they know. Because your presence was so easily felt it is hard not to fixate on your absence, too.

We all still look for you sometimes, because eternity seems too far away to hold you again. Most of the time we just let ourselves be numb to the reality of life without you. Pinecone doesn’t try to hide his bones anymore, because he has nobody to hide them from. He sleeps in your spot now, and I think we all feel grateful that we still have one more furry body to fill it. Your collar is inside a plastic baggie on a shelf, where I’m trying to preserve the scent of you that still clings to it. It’s been two months. Not much has changed.

I’m in Banff right now and it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. We are surrounded by mountains and crystal clear water, bluer than the sky. Every time the sweet mountain air blows through my hair I smile, but there is part of me that hurts because I wish it could ruffle your hair, too. I wish you could feel this sun on your face, or the cool glacial water on your paws. I’m doing all of that for you, but it’s not the same. Even as I am surrounded by 360 degrees of magnificence I can’t picture anything more beautiful than the image of your perfect eyes. Nothing feels warmer to me than the thought of you, and there is nothing sweeter than the memory of your unconditional love.

I picked a flower for you and put it on a tower of rocks in the middle of a stream. The light caught it, and as we walked away it was still sitting in the sun. Maybe it blew away and was carried down the river, and that would be okay. All that matters is that we remember you, and we’re never going to forget you. We’re never going to stop loving you.

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The art of crying in the desert.

Laura WildLeave a comment

The sunrise the next morning was beautiful. There was enough shallow cloud cover that the sky was cool and pink; a color that would turn to a muted yellow as the day went on. In the desert the sun didn’t have to be beating down on you for the air to be hot and dry; I learned this lesson early, only to have it confirmed on a daily basis when I was going through the Texas hill country. In eastern Arizona, however, this was a new kind of atmosphere.

In my mind rural America has always been that color; the color of the watered down iced tea that the dried out people drank on their yellow doorsteps. The watchers; the ones with the cats with yellow eyes that had a way of following you long after you were out of sight. The people with the yellow fences, and the yellow trucks, and in some cases, the yellow teeth. Their grass, their water, the windows of their houses- they were all yellow. Maybe it was the hazy sky that had this affect on them, or maybe it was the heat. Either way, Tuesday, September 22nd was coated in a fog of deep-southern heaviness that stuck with me for many reasons. It was a momentous day.

I saw my first dead dog that day, an image that has stayed with me as vividly as the day it happened. She was a gray pit bull, and when I came upon her she looked like she was sleeping, or had been alive only moments ago. Maybe the car that hit her had been one that had passed me earlier, and seeing her so carelessly laid to rest made me wonder why it hadn’t been me. Was it just chance, or was it because I was easier to see? Either way, the feelings she evoked were not really anger or frustration, or even fear; it was just regular old heartbreak. She didn’t even have a collar. Not only did I have the overwhelming urge to cry but I felt an overwhelming obligation to it too; this animal deserved to be mourned, and regardless of if anybody else was going to do it, I was.

Crying in the desert was an experience unlike any other, and at this point in my trip I was not yet accustomed to it. It was almost paranormal, the way it snuck up on you and held you down for as long as it wanted, and then disappeared quietly as if it had never happened. There was something about letting myself cry that felt so dangerous, maybe because I felt unusually close to falling apart all the time. I was almost always able to avoid it by being optimistic, which is why it was so rare, but today was one of those exceptions.

It was easy to get caught off guard by certain moments, even the seemingly ordinary ones, because when they mixed with the loneliness of the desert they had a way of becoming extraordinary and momentous. The act of passing by a dog like the ones I was missing so much at home, and realizing that it wasn’t even really a dog anymore but just a body, was a significant moment for me in that way. Sometimes, however, moments became momentous for more obvious reasons; simply because they were traumatic. I experienced another one of those moments several miles up the road.

As I crested the top of a hill I saw a couple of cars pulled off to the side of the road, and beside them, one of my friends, who was laying unconscious on the pavement. She had presumably hit the rumble strip and had detached herself from her bike, which was laying damaged in the dirt. She, too, had been damaged by the accident, and didn’t come to for a solid five minutes. I called the police as one of the other cyclists helped her the best he could, because he was an EMT. She woke up before the ambulance even got there, and she had no idea what had happened. Nobody had seen it. All I knew was that I had been going about 30 miles an hour as I came down the hill, and she could have been going even faster when she crashed.

The way she thanked us all so profusely when she was awake, and the way she climbed onto the stretcher all by herself was an incredible display of strength. She was taken in an ambulance and then airlifted all the way back to Phoenix, where they determined that she had severe traumatic brain injury, five broken ribs, a punctured lung, and numerous other injuries. She didn’t return for the rest of the trip, and wasn’t able to ride her bike again until months later. It was undoubtedly the most unexpected event of the entire trip.

She was such a fast rider, and she had so much more experience than me. Her abrupt absence was so unusual and unexplainable that the Southern Tier bike route itself began to take on a much more hostile demeanor. Nobody knew what to expect, and the rest of the trip was simply different from that point on. We were without one of our strongest riders for one thing, and without the same relaxed view of our safety that we had had before.The day that began with a soft pink glow ended in a cloud of yellow dust, as we finished the rest of an 80 mile day that felt too long not only in distance but in magnitude. After the accident it became evident that I was more than capable of doing the same thing, especially since I was so inexperienced. I was not indestructible; in fact, from that point on I began to feel vulnerable.

A long lasting bereavement.

Laura WildLeave a comment

Three years ago on Christmas day I witnessed the death of my first true love, a Bichon Frise’. Gigi was 8 years old and I was 15, and it was with her and my mother on a small black couch that I first learned what death was, and I felt it in my arms. From that point on I began to age at the rate of my beloved dog, at five times the speed of everybody else, until I became old in a way that didn’t reflect my cluelessness and naivety, but my pain. Three years later I was on that same black couch with my mother, another beloved dog in our arms, too weak to stand up on her own. We were at the only emergency veterinary clinic in Rapid City, one that we knew all too well. Her name was Mabel, and she died in that clinic too, in my arms, and I felt death again for the second time.

It is the loss of these two sources of unconditional love that brings me here, where I can finally write about the time that existed between them and the impact they had on everything I did. When I lost Gigi, I thought I would never be so loved again. Now that Mabel is gone, I find myself looking for something to compare to the happiness she gave me, just by letting me be devoted to her.

It has been three weeks since my sweet border collie mix looked up at me with her ethereal eyes, rich gold with green lining, otherworldly in not only their color but in the way they held onto my gaze and never let go. It has been three months since I spent my 19th birthday with my best friend, so wild and alive, on the day that marked the three year anniversary of her adoption. She was a baby when I got her on my 16th birthday, and still a baby in many ways when she died so young, at the age of three, after her internal organs began to shut down. One after another, possibly caused by poisoning from weed killers and pesticides. We don’t really know exactly what the culprit was, just that it was fast, too fast to process and too late to prevent. She is gone, my pride and joy. And once again I have become acutely aware of my complete and utter aloneness.

It is not in my physical seclusion that I feel lonely; I have always required solitude almost more than human contact; but in my grieving, I guess. Does it suffice to say that nobody understands? Or that I’m tired, and I feel unable to grow from such a tragedy that was so unnecessary and so unfair? This loss is different from the last one, and in many ways it is more significant, too. There is no part of my being that wants more than to be with her, or that values her innocence more than I have in this stage of my life.

I suppose I can say that I have been through quite a bit in the past few years, what with the initial depression that followed immediately after the death of my first dog, the tremendous weight gain that followed and the subsequent slow, carefully calculated weight loss. I developed a fear of social interaction and anything high school related, as well as insomnia and anxiety. As my darkest depression began to pass with the help of medication I moved swiftly into my rebellious stage, and embarked on the small adventures that eventually lead to my greatest adventure and greatest rebellion- my cross-country bike trip.

I call it The Great Escape, because that’s what it has become; now that I am home again I sometimes feel like it was nothing more than a recreational outlet, as I find myself in the same place I was three years ago. Though I have changed in many ways, I am fundamentally the same in my weak, underdeveloped coping capabilities. I simply can’t deal with loss, and I haven’t the slightest idea how to grieve. But I am determined to keep from falling back into the depression that I became so accustomed to after Gigi’s death.

I was a child then, and now I am more or less an adult. I raised Mabel from the time that she was a puppy, and I knew her through every stage of her life. I shared something with her that I couldn’t possibly have shared with a childhood pet, because I was primarily responsible for her well being. And more so, she was responsible for my well being; as all of this depression was reaching a peak, she was there for me every step of the way. She was the one that understood, and I was able to cling onto her physically as well as emotionally. Now I can do neither.

I don’t think my goal is to move on; rather to resist the seemingly inevitable regression that accompanies loss. I have that unshakable remorse that manifests itself inside of all of my memories of her, and the fear of losing the memories if I let go of so much as one ounce of regret. I don’t know if everybody feels this way when they lose someone they love… but I have no desire to stop hurting. I don’t want to be free of her, just of my silence and self-created loneliness. There has got to be someone out there who knows what this is like, and there has got to be someone out there who isn’t afraid of it.

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