Month: October 2023

Heart Medicine

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

Six p.m. Time to feed the dog. Except that the dog’s absence is the loudest presence in my silent house. Giving up my canine companion is one of the sadder parts of moving from my small-town, riverside house to a thirteenth floor studio apartment in downtown Seattle.

Tawny arrived at my front door in the arms of a friend eight years ago. She’d found him abandoned in the park across the river from my home. I named him for his tawny color, a mix of gold and amber. He’s also a mix of whatever breeds you want to assign him. 

I should’ve named him Coyote after the mythical coyote trickster of Native American lore. Tawny would play his little tricks, like tearing around the house with an illicitly acquired shoe in his mouth. At my command he’d drop the shoe, perk up his big ears, and give me a wide-mouthed grin as if to say, “Wasn’t that fun?!” The dog trainer said he had an “attitude,” but that’s a lousy name for a dog.

I’d always thought I’d stay in this house at least through the end of Tawny’s life — surely another five years, or more. Recently, it became increasingly clear that the time to move was now. I made the decision sooner and more quickly than I ever imagined. With that decision came the certainty (the hope?) that there would be a good new home for Tawny.

As weeks went by, my certainty wavered. Friends repeatedly sighed,  “We’d love to take him, but …” My ear-worm kept repeating that beautiful Bernstein/Sondheim song from “West Side Story:” Someday, somewhere … there’s a place for us. 

Somehow, somewhere, there’d be a place for Tawny. I envisioned plenty of space for him to run around — within a sturdy fence.

The call came shortly before the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. It’s Francis’ sculpture you see in gardens, most often with a bird perched on his shoulder. He wrote the poem celebrating “all creatures of our God and King.” Many Christian churches celebrate St. Francis’ feast day by inviting people to bring their pets to church for a blessing. On the Feast of St. Francis, Tawny was invited not to church but to a new home, inhabited by a dog-adoring human and surrounded by two beautiful acres of fenced green grass. 

Tawny’s new human partner recently lost her longtime canine companion, leaving her with a hole in her heart — a hole that Tawny is snuggling into. He can’t fill that hole — nothing could — but he can make it feel less huge. 

Adopting out a healthy dog is not as heart-breaking as making the end-of-life decision for a cherished animal who’s in pain. Still, I’m bereft because Tawny is the last in a long line of faithful dogs — and occasional cats — who have enriched my life, grounded, entertained, and inspired me. Each, in their departure, left a hole in my heart. And each made my heart a little fuller, a little stronger.

Sure Signs

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized2 Comments

Just as the bull moose disappeared into the early evening shadows, my neighbor commented, “You’re not gonna be seeing this in Seattle.” 

A few minutes earlier, he’d phoned me and asked, “You lookin’ out your window?” I hadn’t been.

“There’s a moose walking down the middle of the river in your direction.”

This was a first. I’ve lived along the Okanogan River — a humble little tributary to the great Columbia — for forty years. I’ve seen an extraordinary variety of wildlife: eagles, osprey, all sorts of ducks, raucous Canada geese, beaver, river otters, great blue heron, fish jumping, sun-bathing humans on floating inflatables, and one time (I’m not making this up) a pelican. But never a moose.

I almost didn’t see this one. Despite my neighbor’s phone alert, I didn’t immediately spot the moose as he waded past my house. He was camouflaged in the reflection of trees that grow on the opposite river bank. Then, a few yards downriver, he suddenly came into view, backlighted by the last glimmer of twilight. If my neighbor hadn’t called, I would’ve thought it a mirage. 

Moose are, after all, larger than life. They can weigh up to sixteen hundred pounds and measure six feet from hoof to shoulder. At this time of year the Okanogan River is so shallow, this fellow had no trouble keeping his massive head and horns above water.

“I wonder where he’ll get out,” I said to my neighbor.

“Anywhere he wants,” was the reply.

Those fleeting moments — staring at a moose on his evening promenade — felt like a final gift from a river that has nurtured and inspired me through the years. At the end of the month I’ll move to the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in downtown Seattle with a view of city skyline. I don’t mean to be totally self-absorbed, as if the moose’s appearance were some kind of sign meant just for me. Still, I asked a Native American friend what it might’ve meant. His response was both practical and mystical. He said it’s time for the moose to migrate in order to thrive now and in the future. Conditions are always changing, and moose know when the time is right. Yes, it was a sign.

Signs have been coming my way for quite a while. At first they’re just little nudges, fleeting thoughts, offhand comments that somehow resonate. At some point, you begin to pay attention. You wonder where this is leading. Finally the signs become billboards in flashing neon. The direction is clear: time to follow a different path.

After the decision comes the checklist: 

  • Inform and try to explain the decision to family and friends (not to mention myself). Check.
  • Hold a gigantic moving sale that, with a lot of help from friends, was bigger and as much fun as any party I’ve ever hosted. Check.
  • “Stage” the house to make it look livable but not personal — like a hotel lobby. Check.
  • List the house for sale with all the necessary marketing tools, signs, photos, internet videos. Check.
  • Accept an offer on the house within an unbelievable twenty-four hours. Check.

Again, it’s evening. As I write,  I watch the rosy glow of sunset reflected on the river. No moose tonight but the ducks are staging an aerial show that never fails to take my breath away. Flying in perfect formation like Air Force Blue Angels, they land as a squadron with a singular splash.

Not long from now, when the river freezes over, the ducks will head to open water on the Columbia. Earlier today I heard the sandhill cranes overhead on their way south. 

The signs are always clear when it’s time to move on.