“To love at all is to be vulnerable.
Love anything, and your heart will
certainly be wrung and possibly broken.
If you want to make sure of keeping it intact,
you must give it to no one, not even to an animal.
Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries;
avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe
in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.
But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—
it will change. It will not be broken;
it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
The alternative to tragedy, or at least
to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.
The only place outside Heaven
where you can be perfectly safe from all
the dangers and perturbations of love
is Hell.”
C.S. Lewis. “The Four Loves”. p.169.
Love anything, and your heart will
certainly be wrung and possibly broken.
If you want to make sure of keeping it intact,
you must give it to no one, not even to an animal.
Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries;
avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe
in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.
But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—
it will change. It will not be broken;
it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
The alternative to tragedy, or at least
to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.
The only place outside Heaven
where you can be perfectly safe from all
the dangers and perturbations of love
is Hell.”
C.S. Lewis. “The Four Loves”. p.169.
My dear friend Father Bruce sent this poem by C.S. Lewis to me in an email. I read it on a Sunday morning, the first Sunday morning after Hyacinth died. She had been gone for about 40 hours. Hyacinth was a 10 pound toy poodle. She had been my constant companion ever since she was a brand new puppy over a decade ago. She was like a child to me, my best friend, even a bit like a lover. We slept curled together every night. I could feel the touch of her fur against my skin, the weight of her body pressed against me, the rise and fall of her breath. She snored. Every morning she would roll over, give a big yawn and look at me. Her curly fur would often be smooshed down on one side of her face, whichever side she had laid upon while she slept. This gave her a comical lopsided appearance. But after a few brisk shakes of the head her “bad hair day” would be over. If she didn’t want anything she would yawn again, go back under the covers, and snore some more. This she did often. The only person who loved lazing around in bed more than I do was Hyacinth. We made a great pair.
If she needed to go to the bathroom she would give a quiet “err”. Not a “grr” but an “err”, a growl of communication, not a growl of menace. It simply meant that she had some need. It was my job to figure out what that need was, and more importantly to take care of it. I liked my job, and after more than ten years I had become quite good at it. Deciphering Hyacinth’s “err”s was all about context. An “err” in the morning usually meant it was time to go to the bathroom. If the “err” was uttered in the middle of the night it could be translated in the same way, but “nighttime err” might also mean “I’m thirsty - give me water”. An “err” with eye contact typically meant “pick me up and hold me”. An “err” without eye contact required me to follow her gaze for proper interpretation. With “gazing err” she would look at whatever it was that she wanted, often one of her chewies or pig ears perched upon a shelf or tucked away in a drawer. The message was clear; “get me that”. If an “err” occurred in the presence of human food consumption the meaning was always unambiguous. If “food errs” were ignored they would be repeated and would become increasingly emphatic until somebody yielded a tidbit of food off their dinner plate. An “err” around one of the other dogs meant “S/he has something that I want – get it for me”. I know it sounds unfair, and it was, but when this happened I would wrestle away whatever toy or treat the other dog had and give it to Hyacinth. That’s just the way that it was.
Society has an image about what makes a dog a good dog, and it usually involves an animal that dutifully serves its master and obeys its master’s commands. Because of this stereotype I used to occasionally be a bit embarrassed that I was the slave of a 10 pound poodle. I would explain that our arrangement was not the result of poor planning or execution, it was simply an amicable choice that we made together. There was nothing wrong with Hyacinth that precluded her education. She was a poodle, after all, and poodles are the most intelligent breed of dog that there is. Well, some people think that border collies are smarter; which breed is actually the smartest is apparently a matter of some debate that depends upon how you test their intelligence. Border collies are good workers, I’ll give them that. But poodles are too smart to work, they have humans to do that!
So if Hyacinth was an average poodle she’d be smarter than most dogs. Of course, there was nothing average about Hyacinth. I am convinced that Hyacinth was the smartest dog in the world. I could bore you with the statistical proof of this assertion, but you probably don’t really care about those silly details. Trust me - Hyacinth was the smartest dog in the world. Now I’m no idiot, but I have no illusion of being the smartest person in the world. So I never even tried to train Hyacinth. That would have been a little bit like requiring Einstein to roll over, sit up, and stay. The idea struck both Hyacinth and I as entirely absurd. So she trained me instead. Given the circumstances, it just seemed like the most sensible thing to do.
One afternoon Hyacinth and I went to my friend Lisa’s house. Lisa has a dog named Hanna, and every time I visit their house I go to Hanna’s special drawer and get her a rawhide treat. Naturally Hyacinth would get one as well if she was along for the ride (which she usually was). Hanna always finished her rawhide first; this is not surprising given the fact that Hanna is at least four or five times the size of Hyacinth. Sometimes I would get Hanna a second if I thought I could do so without getting caught by Hyacinth. But even a second or third would be finished long before Hyacinth made much progress, so Hanna would invariably be forced to watch Hyacinth eat her rawhide without having one of her own. Ever the gentlewoman, Hanna would endure this is silence, often retreating to her kennel to have a snooze instead of suffering the indignity of watching Hyacinth gloat and chew by herself.
On one such occasion Hyacinth was sitting next to me, as always, on the sofa while I spoke with Lisa. Hanna was sitting on the floor intently watching the rawhide propped between Hyacinth’s front paws. The rawhide dropped to the floor. Without thinking, I picked it up and returned it to Hyacinth’s paws. The rawhide dropped again, and again I picked it up. I’m not sure how many times this was repeated, but suddenly the rawhide flew across the room. Amazingly mindless of my actions, I got up from the sofa, walked across the room and retrieved the rawhide without breaking the conversation. I returned to my seat and dutifully placed the rawhide between Hyacinth’s paws. The rawhide flew again. I retrieved again. At this point my friend Lisa could no longer contain her amusement and she burst out laughing. She pointed out that I had been playing fetch with my dog for the past five minutes – and I was the one doing the fetching.
I looked down at Hyacinth. She flung the rawhide off into space with the most powerful flick of her head that she could muster. I held my ground. I didn’t move. Hyacinth glared at me. I glared back. She said “err”. I fetched.
If she needed to go to the bathroom she would give a quiet “err”. Not a “grr” but an “err”, a growl of communication, not a growl of menace. It simply meant that she had some need. It was my job to figure out what that need was, and more importantly to take care of it. I liked my job, and after more than ten years I had become quite good at it. Deciphering Hyacinth’s “err”s was all about context. An “err” in the morning usually meant it was time to go to the bathroom. If the “err” was uttered in the middle of the night it could be translated in the same way, but “nighttime err” might also mean “I’m thirsty - give me water”. An “err” with eye contact typically meant “pick me up and hold me”. An “err” without eye contact required me to follow her gaze for proper interpretation. With “gazing err” she would look at whatever it was that she wanted, often one of her chewies or pig ears perched upon a shelf or tucked away in a drawer. The message was clear; “get me that”. If an “err” occurred in the presence of human food consumption the meaning was always unambiguous. If “food errs” were ignored they would be repeated and would become increasingly emphatic until somebody yielded a tidbit of food off their dinner plate. An “err” around one of the other dogs meant “S/he has something that I want – get it for me”. I know it sounds unfair, and it was, but when this happened I would wrestle away whatever toy or treat the other dog had and give it to Hyacinth. That’s just the way that it was.
Society has an image about what makes a dog a good dog, and it usually involves an animal that dutifully serves its master and obeys its master’s commands. Because of this stereotype I used to occasionally be a bit embarrassed that I was the slave of a 10 pound poodle. I would explain that our arrangement was not the result of poor planning or execution, it was simply an amicable choice that we made together. There was nothing wrong with Hyacinth that precluded her education. She was a poodle, after all, and poodles are the most intelligent breed of dog that there is. Well, some people think that border collies are smarter; which breed is actually the smartest is apparently a matter of some debate that depends upon how you test their intelligence. Border collies are good workers, I’ll give them that. But poodles are too smart to work, they have humans to do that!
So if Hyacinth was an average poodle she’d be smarter than most dogs. Of course, there was nothing average about Hyacinth. I am convinced that Hyacinth was the smartest dog in the world. I could bore you with the statistical proof of this assertion, but you probably don’t really care about those silly details. Trust me - Hyacinth was the smartest dog in the world. Now I’m no idiot, but I have no illusion of being the smartest person in the world. So I never even tried to train Hyacinth. That would have been a little bit like requiring Einstein to roll over, sit up, and stay. The idea struck both Hyacinth and I as entirely absurd. So she trained me instead. Given the circumstances, it just seemed like the most sensible thing to do.
One afternoon Hyacinth and I went to my friend Lisa’s house. Lisa has a dog named Hanna, and every time I visit their house I go to Hanna’s special drawer and get her a rawhide treat. Naturally Hyacinth would get one as well if she was along for the ride (which she usually was). Hanna always finished her rawhide first; this is not surprising given the fact that Hanna is at least four or five times the size of Hyacinth. Sometimes I would get Hanna a second if I thought I could do so without getting caught by Hyacinth. But even a second or third would be finished long before Hyacinth made much progress, so Hanna would invariably be forced to watch Hyacinth eat her rawhide without having one of her own. Ever the gentlewoman, Hanna would endure this is silence, often retreating to her kennel to have a snooze instead of suffering the indignity of watching Hyacinth gloat and chew by herself.
On one such occasion Hyacinth was sitting next to me, as always, on the sofa while I spoke with Lisa. Hanna was sitting on the floor intently watching the rawhide propped between Hyacinth’s front paws. The rawhide dropped to the floor. Without thinking, I picked it up and returned it to Hyacinth’s paws. The rawhide dropped again, and again I picked it up. I’m not sure how many times this was repeated, but suddenly the rawhide flew across the room. Amazingly mindless of my actions, I got up from the sofa, walked across the room and retrieved the rawhide without breaking the conversation. I returned to my seat and dutifully placed the rawhide between Hyacinth’s paws. The rawhide flew again. I retrieved again. At this point my friend Lisa could no longer contain her amusement and she burst out laughing. She pointed out that I had been playing fetch with my dog for the past five minutes – and I was the one doing the fetching.
I looked down at Hyacinth. She flung the rawhide off into space with the most powerful flick of her head that she could muster. I held my ground. I didn’t move. Hyacinth glared at me. I glared back. She said “err”. I fetched.
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