A lesson in love

I WANT to eat sugar until I feel sick and then crawl under the bed covers to block out every ray of light so I can deal with the pain I am feeling. My dog Reyne died in my arms last Thursday morning and that hurts beyond measure.

A month ago I had rushed her to the veterinarian for an emergency splenectomy. After her surgery, I called a police canine officer friend and cried. He said, “You have to be calm, happy and strong for her because she will feed off of your energy.”

So I practised feeling joy and peace – even after her tests showed the cancer on her spleen had spread to her liver. “But she’s only eight,” I told the veterinarian when he gave me the news. I vowed to make the most of every day we had left; I learned to live in the moment.

“The plan had been for Reyne and Rambo to sleep by my side in the study while I wrote new books. I had envisioned my dogs helping me to transition into the forced retirement that I had difficulty facing. Instead, I faced a life without Reyne, this difficult, challenging, but obedient dog, who loved me on her own terms.

As a puppy Reyne had sapphire blue eyes. She fit in my daughter Ijanaya’s hand, and she would swim in the air to try to reach Rambo. We kept her away from Rambo until she got all of her shots, but she stuck her tail under the door for Rambo to sniff. When she grew up, her loyalty and feisty spirit amazed me; her anxiety troubled me.

When I wasn’t home, she climbed trees during thunderstorms to escape from the yard. No tranquilliser could sedate her for fireworks. But she too practised happiness. When she felt excited, she did a crazy run in my gallery where she literally bounced off the walls with horrifying thuds.

Over time, her blue eyes turned to amber-coloured wolf eyes that fed my obsession with wolves. Still, exasperated at times, I threatened to give her away. One morning, I walked out in the gallery, and she was sitting in the same position my white bull terrier Jada used to sit. I gasped. Reyne had gathered all ten of her toys and organised them into a perfect arc in front of her – just like Jada had once done.

“Jada?” I whispered. I took this as a sign to offer Reyne more love. I reaped the rewards for trying. Reyne taught me compassion and commitment; perseverance and patience. She ushered her way out of Rambo’s shadow and into my heart. She challenged my patience in every way imaginable with her jealousy of Rambo, her penchant for peeing in the gallery, and her chewing everything in sight.

Reyne kept her puppy personality, and she learned to manage much of her angst. She turned to me for support and comfort and grew into her sense of joy. Reyne had an exceptionally long tail that she wagged in large arcs to show her happiness. She carried on conversations with all the dogs in the neighbourhood.

In the end, she wanted only to be by my side. Her last act was to rush outside the house to pee in the driveway, a gesture I am sure to please me. She returned to me panting and unable to breathe. I rushed her to the veterinarian.

But as Charmaine at the vet’s office says, “God doesn’t give us dogs. He loans us dogs. Each dog is different. We learn from all of them and then we learn to give them back graciously.”

Today, I write from the depths of despair hoping that someone will read this and realise even in immeasurable sorrow and pain there is always beauty and hope waiting for us to reclaim. Writing helps me to deal with unbearable pain. Speaking to someone you can trust also helps. Healing takes place when we can turn grief into treasured memories and then remember we have to forge ahead as caretaker of those memories.

Reyne taught me that I possess strength and compassion. She trusted me and depended on my constancy. I learned to see the rewards of accepting that which is difficult. She taught me the fine art of accepting we are all flawed and the importance of giving second chances. With all her quirks and issues, Reyne helped me to understand myself better.

Rest in peace, dear Reyne, knowing you are always loved.