I was not looking for a dog when Foxy came into my life. I had two cats and that was enough for me. Foxy, obviously, had other plans!
In April of 2012, a friend who volunteered at Famous Fido Rescue in Chicago posted Foxy’s picture on Facebook—and that was it. I took one look and knew she was my dog. I talked to the rescue and found out that poor Foxy had issues – she was food aggressive, anxious, nervous, territorial about anything on the floor, as well as furniture. She’d been fostered/adopted twice and returned twice, so she had trust issues as well. Knowing all of this, I still jumped in my car after that phone call and headed out to get my dog. I knew in my gut that it was important to bring her home, and yet I had no idea, in that moment, how much she would change my life.
Because of her trust issues and general anxiety, Foxy was prone to “knee-jerk” reactions. To say she was “prickly” would be a real understatement. You could walk by her just a hair too close, and she’d jump and snarl – and then, she’d be immediately contrite. I spent months working with her to eat her meals without “guarding.”
When she first came to me, I could only pet her on a few spots on her head – and never, ever touch her tail. I spent months and months petting her when I could, looking into her eyes as often as possible and telling her it was okay; that she was really home this time, and that she wasn’t going anywhere. There were many times when I wondered if I could really do this, but I had made a commitment to her and to myself, and I knew, deep down, that she was worth all of the effort and tears.
And she was.
Because, you see, Foxy was both my mirror and my shadow-side. I was also prone to “knee-jerk” reactions (still can be sometimes!) and I kind of had a good “snarl” thing going too. I was prickly; I had trust issues. I was often operating on the assumption that I was going to be rejected and striking out before someone could hurt me again.
Here I was, this imperfect person who thought imperfection to be a character flaw, with this dog who had no qualms about her own imperfections and, at times, embraced them. But, much to my surprise, that pup and I made a good team. In the six years that Foxy was with me, I helped her overcome many of her demons, and she, in turn, taught me about the power of unconditional love. She also taught me that I was made of much stronger stuff than I gave myself credit for, because as I refused to give up on her, I was forced to see my own shadow in her eyes. To see my own vulnerabilities and fears. And to understand, finally, how painful it was to be locked into those dark places. My refusal to give up on her was a refusal to give up on myself. As I learned to love her without expectations, she helped me learn to love myself, warts and all.
And yet there were the moments that touched my heart, too, and opened it up a little more. The day when she reflexively snapped at me and bit my finger, did a double take that was almost comical, then instantly hung her head in obvious dismay. After a second she met my eyes, then lifted up her muzzle to apologetically lick the hand she’d just bitten. As we looked into each other’s eyes I told her, “It’s okay, baby. I understand what happened there.” And she relaxed, just a hair. Then there was the first time she tentatively rested her head on my foot, sighed, and fell asleep, touching me. The Zombie Apocalypse couldn’t have moved me in that moment, and I sat, with my book forgotten in my lap, watching her sleep. What’s the old saying? “If you want to be loved, love.” Yeah. Like that.
Then, too soon, it seemed, I began to see the writing on the wall. No one had ever been able to get close enough to her to give her a thorough physical exam, so we never really knew how old she was. But in her last couple of years she declined so rapidly that it was clear that she was much older than we’d originally thought. In August of 2018, muzzle white and eyes opaque, she began to have unexplained seizures, and I had to make the decision to end her pain and let her go. I had been hoping she would just quietly exit on her own, but, ever the teacher, she left that to me.
And even the sadness of that decision turned out to be a lesson—and a gift. A few days later, as I was driving to the vet to pick up Foxy’s ashes I was reflecting on the last few days with her, and on the events of her actual passing. It was amazing to realize how being conscious, a side effect of the spiritual work I’ve been doing for the last decade, made Foxy’s passing so very different from other losses I’d felt in my life. It’s hard to explain, but it wasn’t as “sticky.” Even in the moment of her passing, when I was feeling the pain of the loss and the grief of the choice I was making to release her most keenly, I was using my psychic “tools” to ground away the emotion. I was working to let the sorrow flow—not stick. I was aware that she wasn’t really “gone.” I knew that spirit is immortal, and that she was just stepping out of an old, tired body and leaving the unpleasant illnesses behind.
From the day I met her, I knew our relationship was going to be filled with lessons, and I knew that in the normal order of things she would leave before me. She was truly a mirror to me—in an exaggerated way, of course, since I’ve never bitten anyone! But in her, I got to see how, sometimes, someone uses aggression/anger to hide their vulnerability and fear. In refusing to give up on her, I refused to give up on myself. In learning to love her, I learned to love myself. And in letting her go I had to let go of a lot of the pain, guilt, and fear that I had kept locked up inside of myself.
I expected that her passing would hurt much more than it did, but honestly, in my heart it felt like it had been months since she walked on, not just a few days. I was so conscious of my relationship with her, of my love for her, and I stayed so much in present time, integrating my experiences with her as they happened, that there didn’t seem much unfinished business between us. What a lesson! What a gift! My troubled, “unadoptable” dog taught me how to live consciously. She was the best! It’s not that it didn’t hurt: it hurt like the soft ache of missing someone but knowing that you’ll see them again. It’s a gentler kind of pain. The kind that reminds you, not of the loss, but of the love.
I don’t normally write this kind of thing down, but it occurred to me that the difference in the way I experienced her passing was due entirely to the energy work that I’ve made a part of my life. People ask “why do you spend so much time over at Judi’s? What do you get out of the meditation?” The answer is this – the ability to move through life’s experiences with ease and grace, taking the lessons, integrating them, not resisting the growth, and letting the pain flow through me and into the earth. This is what Judi means when she says, “Pain may be necessary, but suffering is optional.” Life sure is interesting. I miss that fuzzy pup and I’m grateful that she felt that I was worthy of her love.