Living Like Eagles

Inspired by Ari's encounter with the beaver, I find myself wanting my own moment of mindlessness. So the following Saturday, I load Ari into the car and we head to a popular trail one town over. It’s hard, though, to change your mindset in a moment, and I’m quickly frustrated. This trail has none of the charm of the beaver's pool. Instead of thick, undisturbed forest, we wander past brush and an absurd number of discarded appliances. I begin to count cedar trees and washing machines. The latter soon wins out. space—the kind of compromised landscape that exists on the margins of suburb and society. Sure, it has all of the accoutrements of wilderness—trees and insects, running water and blooming flowers, but they are dampened by the obvious presences of humans. A few candy and cigarette wrappers intermingle with golden rod; the sounds of the town raceway clog the air. I’m disheartened. Forget metaphysics; everything about this place is just plain physical—and of the most unimaginative kind.

Ari doesn’t seem to mind the human intrusion—in fact, as far as she’s concerned it just seems to add to the sensory overload of one of our walks. She races back and forth along the trail, trying to take it all in. As she does, she keeps her nose buried in the scents on the trail itself. I, too, forget to look upwards. But instead of taking in the scents, I seek further proof that we are not actually in a natural space. I am sulking; trying to find excuses to alienate myself from this place.

And just when I have convinced myself that we can find nothing wild in this landscape, I am stopped cold by a giant roar of water and wings. Ari and I both look out onto the stream, where an enormous bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) is rising out of the current. The eagle is no more than twenty feet away from us, and its seven-foot wingspan seems more like seventy. The characteristic white cap and tail tells me that it is a sexually mature bird, but I can not determine the sex or age from where I stand. Frankly, I can’t do much of anything other than stare at this immense expanse of wing and life. In spite of Benjamin Franklin’s protestation that this is a bird of bad moral character, in spite of the overuse of the eagle for everything from homeland security to car dealerships, this is a hauntingly majestic animal—larger than life in every possible sense of the term.

Ari and I are both frozen—in shock or awe or reverence, I can’t tell—but we stay like that for quite some time, long after the eagle has risen above the canopy and out of sight, long after the sound of race cars once again seeps into our consciousness.

And that’s when it hits me: I am experiencing mindful communion. At least in the sense that I am utterly inside this bird as it rises from the water. Is this a sign? The fulfillment of a personal natural theology? Or is it just a coincidence of time and space—of eagle dinnertime and the noise of a clumsy hiker? I don’t know. I decide it doesn’t matter. For the first time since Cam’s death, I am rooted in the very best sense of the word. As the buzz of the racetrack returns, it somehow seems more distant, more muted than before. Nature—at least this time—has trumped culture. And a sense of wonder has replaced my feelings of loss. The pup and I are spellbound—weightless, almost. And we couldn’t be happier.

Transcendent Rodent

The nights are getting much cooler now, and we have awakened to a chilling blanket of fog each of the last several days. By the second week in September, towns 100 miles to our north are reporting their first frosts. At our house, nighttime temperatures still cling to the lower 40s—not cold enough for our first crystalline morning, but chilly enough to push back Ari’s routine several hours.

Each morning, she gently wakes me around 6:00, and the two of us stumble downstairs. As I wait in the warmth of the foyer, she hurries down the steps of the front porch, into the pine grove, and then back inside. The whole process takes no more than five minutes, but her coat still absorbs the chill of the air—and some of its moisture, too. Without even asking for breakfast, she then alights up the stairs and jumps into bed—a new resurgence of her puppy behavior. But on these mornings, she’s not interested in ensuring that we are stirring, or even playing. Instead, it’s our quiet warmth she seems to value most of all, and she works hard to insinuate herself in one of the pockets created by two drowsy bodies. The absence of Cam means she no longer has to vie for space, and we no longer have a reason to eject the pup. To the contrary, I find a kind of bittersweet solace in another furry mammal curled up in the crook of my knees.

Our walking schedule has changed as well. No longer avoiding the heat of high noon or the bugs that arrive a few hours earlier, we linger in the house another few hours: Ari curls up nose to tail in her dog nest; Greg dons a sweatshirt before retreating to his loft office; I settle on the couch to write with a cup of tea and thick wool socks. We all agree: we’ll wait out the cool dampness before traipsing down the dirt road. Outside, a million different organisms seem to be making the same decision. The morning is quiet, save for the tempered shriek of a bluejay. No squirrel chases; no crickets, crows, or barking neighborhood dogs to stir activity in our cozy mammal den.

By 10:00 a.m., the temperature differential shifts, and it is warmer outside than in. Greg and I open a few windows to let in the newly-heated air. With it also come the tunes of an environment stirring: the rising pulse of locust, the dusty sweetness of one last haying. The pup catches both the scent and sound. She raises her head, then cocks one ear and half her nose in the direction of the window. Interesting, she seems to say. She rises with a long, streching bow and shakes off the cool air. Time for a walk.

These days, we opt for the familiar—down the drive and over towards Stagecoach Road. But as we have already learned with the start of spring and then summer, this route is familiar in name only. The sun has moved perceptible degrees to the south, casting new shadows on the drive and illuminating patches of ground and brush we previously ignored. Working in concert with all of that nighttime moisture, it has also created a dizzying display of illuminated spiders’ webs and browning weeds. Ari seems impressed. I tell her it will only get more amazing as we complete the arc towards a frosty winter, but she gives me a look that suggests I might be once again showing off. I recant and return to the silence of our midmorning walk.
We make our way to our usual terminus: Martin Stream. Its pools are quiet and cool in the morning shade. But unlike most days, the pool is inhabited this morning—its uniformity broken by a single object floating on the surface. For a moment, I worry it is another carcass Ari will want to embed in her coat. I wind her leash tight around my hand since neither one of us wants to endure a bath today. But as we get closer, I see that the object is very much alive. And very much an enormous beaver (Castor canadensis).

Our field guide describes beavers as hefty rodents with disproportionately large skulls. Whoever wrote that hasn’t met this particular beaver, whose immense body positively dwarfs his skull. Then again, the guide also insists that beavers are both nocturnal and group-oriented. Either I need a new guide or this lone paddler hasn’t read up on his rodent natural history.

Beavers are impossibly improbable animals. Observed head-on, they seem like over-inflated balloons with whiskers. Their flat, narrow faces are identifiable only because of the whorl of two nostrils and their enormous ochre teeth. I don’t if that’s mythic or comic. Maybe both. Robin Williams once joked that platypuses are proof that God likes to get stoned. If not further proof of this irreverent idea, beavers at least suggest that metaphysics has a sense of humor.

In spite of their strange appearance (or perhaps because of it), beavers exert an almost inconceivable effect on the natural world. In the northeast, their dam building has had more effect on topography than any other naturally-occurring force. Beavers create their own habitat, impounding water and creating marsh or entire ponds where there was once just the trickle of a stream. This process has a radical effect on an ecosystem, altering entire flora systems and, in turn, modifying what scientists call the “biogeochemistry” of a region. This is turn creates a new cycle of chemical compounds that dictate who and what can live within a particular biome.

Ari also seems to appreciate the cosmic sway of the beaver, albeit for very different reasons. Although the one paddling before her has impossibly tiny eyes and ears, both are clearly big enough to hone in on my curious dog. Theirs is clearly a mutual attraction. I give Ari the full length of her leash and try to make myself invisible behind the lip of dirt separating trail from stream. I want to see how the two of them will interact with limited human intervention.

The beaver doesn’t seem to care one way or another about my presence; instead, it is captivated by the pup. They watch one another for a few seconds. Then, after deciding Ari is not enough of a threat to warrant a hasty retreat, the beaver paddles over to the edge of the pool and pulls itself heavily to land. Even with his long bat-winged feet and thick frame, this beaver is remarkably nimble on land and makes his way to Ari in a single heartbeat. They are now just inches from one another, standing nose to nose.

I freeze. Never in our entire project has a wild animal approached Ari like this one is. I watch them closely, ready to yank Ari well away if the beaver shows any signs of aggression or diseased behavior. It doesn’t, and so I hold my breath as the pup studies this new creature. She is pure electricity as she does—dancing from foot to foot and reaching out with her nose, only to quickly reel it back in. Intrigue and uncertainty battle in the mind of this dog. Or perhaps she is merely trying to make sense of this creature by way of comparison: Hmmm, round like the neighborhood pigs, but much smaller. Compact like Cam, but not trying to claw out my eyes. Another red squirrel? Definitely not. And then there is that exotic, musky smell. Pretty darn alluring, if I may say so.

The beaver inches closer. The two animals are now an inch apart from one another. They are entranced, and the rest of the world, including me, has melted away. What they are experiencing is intimacy in its purest form. They are, cognitively speaking, completely within one another.

This interaction—what Annie Dillard calls “mindlessness” and “purity of living.” Both are states dogs and beavers clearly understand. Ari has no qualms about giving herself over to mindlessness. Or perhaps more exactly, she surrenders to a special kind of mindfulness: one that surpasses mere recognition of the moment and enters a more immediate kind of awareness not interrupted by concentration on the self. A kind of rapture.

Almost every Eastern culture has an account of this state. In Sanskrit, it is called Dhyāna; in Japanese, it is Zen. In Ari’s homeland of Korea, Buddhists refer to this state of meditation as Seon. All agree that this is a high level state of existence and communion.

Ari doesn’t care about whether this is elevated consciousness or not. And that’s the brilliance of her state of mind at a time like this. There is no metacognition or thinking about thinking; there is just experience itself. I have no idea what this feels like. I want to, though. And that’s the paradox: as soon as I consciously want this state, I have interrupted it. In the case of Ari and the beaver, my stirring—my elation and surprise over their encounter—breaks the spell between these two animals, sending the beaver on its way and leaving a stunned pup to slowly regain her sense of the surrounding world.

Cam Ramsay: 2000-2007

Our cat, Cam, is sick. It came on suddenly, and by the time we took her to the vet's office for a diagnosis, she couldn't even stand up on her own. They give her IV fluids and take her blood. They suspect kidney failure, but tell us we won't know for certain until the tests are returned.

The next day, Cam's vet--Dr. Townsend--calls. It's worse than he thought. At best, she'll live another day or two. And they will be painful days. Just after eleven that morning, Greg and I agree: it's time to intervene. We wrap Cam in her favorite fleece blanket and take her to the truck. On the ride over, she curls herself around my leg and rests her chin on my foot. She wants me to protect her. She feels safe with me. I want her to be angry with me. To fight and resist. But it’s too late for that. For the first time in her short life, she is feeble resignation.

Greg and I sit in the parking lot with Cam for several minutes before entering the clinic. I resist the urge to run away. To wrap this little striped cat in her blanket and take her somewhere else where she can spend the rest of her life in peace. But that, too, seems cruel. There will be no more peace in her life. We walk inside.

They’re expecting us, and quickly usher us past the waiting area and into a private room. Cam burrows into my arm. I cry, telling her it will be okay. The lie makes me weep harder.

Matt Townsend enters the office and introduces himself to Greg. He is considerate and polite. He tells us he is very sorry. I know he means it. He explains what will happen and asks us to sign a consent form, then leaves to prepare the drugs that will end Cam’s life. First, he administers the same sedative she received the night before. This time, though, she resists its effects, raising her head jerkily each time she hears a noise. She does not want to go to sleep. I think she knows it’s forever this time. Dr. Townsend leaves us for a few minutes, then returns with a young, pretty vet tech, who nods her head shyly at us. This is hard for them too.

They shave Cam’s front forearm and swab it with alcohol. The drugs will be administered intravenously and will be instantaneous. Even with the saline infusion last night, she is dehydrated and it takes them several tries to find her vein. “Come on, sweetheart,” Matt whispers. “Don’t make this hard for us.” She consents. A minute later, she is gone.

The four of us stand awkwardly, looking at the floor.

“This is your room,” Matt tells me and Greg. “No one else will use it for the rest of the day. Take as much time as you need.”

He leaves with the technician. They have dozens of patients to see today. Behind the door, I can hear them greeting a new dog or cat. The sound is very far away and yet uncomfortably close. I want the world to shut down—just for a minute.

Cam’s beauty has returned in her death. Her eyes are clear and moist, no longer dilated with discomfort. I stroke her head and ears, then run my finger along her paws. It is inconceivable to me that she is gone. Greg cries behind me. Cam is his cat, too, and he has not seen her worsen over the past two days. Her death must feel even more jarring to him.

After some time, we wrap her limp body in the fleece blanket and take it to the truck. It feels heavy on my lap. Popular wisdom has it that the human body loses 21 grams in death. But Cam feels heavier, as if her life has been replaced by lead. Throughout the long ride home, her body sinks deeper into my lap until I wonder if I will be able to lift it. I remember the weight of that small doe. Cam feels at least that heavy now. Maybe more.

Back home, we leave her in the truck and take shovels into the woods. There is room enough near Kinch’s grave, dug almost exactly one year earlier. We are surprisingly familiar with the routine. I set to collecting stones while Greg struggles to break tree roots and heavy earth. This grave will be smaller and shallower than the beagle’s. Perhaps because of that, or because we are becoming adept at the process, we dig Cam’s in a faction of the time. I walk slowly to the truck and collect her swaddled body, taking it back into the woods. But kneeling before the opened earth, I cannot release it. I cannot place her in the ground, where she will decompose in the dark and the cold.

“Take your time,” Greg says, placing his hand upon my shoulder. “We don’t have to rush.”

I clasp her body to my chest. Even in the weightiness of death, it feels familiar. I will never hold it again, and this thought slays me. I rock back and forth, cradling her as if this will somehow bring her back. For a moment, I think that we don’t have to bury her—that there must be some way to keep her with us. But then I think about the fish and the doe and all of the other dead animals we’ve watched decay. I can’t see Cam endure a similar process.

Tibetan Buddhists have a class of individuals known as bone breakers. Called “domdens,” their jobs are to grind bodies into meal so that they might be consumed by vultures and, thus, transported high into the sky. I want to give Cam the same feeling of liberation. But I am no domden. I cannot break this little body. Instead, I lower the blanket into the jagged hole, smoothing her swaddled form and making sure she is tucked in tight. We spread the dirt upon her—a carnal sweep that cakes our hands and sweat-soaked arms. There is power in this process of burial. I don’t think I ever understood it before this moment. When Kinch died, I was more concerned over the poignancy of Greg’s grief than I was my own sadness. But this time is utterly selfish. I know only the heartbreak I am feeling and the shred of comfort I find from balling my fists deeply in the cool dirt then packing Cam’s body in that same solidity.

We pile stones on top of the earth, building them into a smaller version of Kinch’s warrior cairn. Then we return, briefly, to the sunlight of our yard, where we pick bouquets of daisies and black-eyed susans. One for the new small grave; another for the larger one that has settled over four seasons.

As we walk back towards the house, I spy a triangular face peering out from the kitchen window. Tall, black-tipped ears; thick tawny fur; blue eyes and a grin. She barks a greeting and whines impatiently. We are still excluding her, and she’s had enough.

I do not want to see this young dog, so exuberant and curious. I do not want to feel the thickness of her life, or be reminded of her endless pursuit of my now-dead cat. I resent both: the former because it reminds me of what Cam no longer has; the latter because I worry it hastened her death. I walk away from her when she greets me at the door, then retreat upstairs and fall asleep.

Greg takes Ari on her evening walk and wakes me to ask if I want dinner. I do not. I want Cam—that’s all.

Later that night, I curl into a cat-sized ball on the futon in my office. The T.V. is on, but I do not notice. Instead, I stare straight ahead, watching my own grief. I have always believed in euthanasia—for all creatures. Greg and I swore we would use it as a way to end terminal illness when discomfort outweighed vitality in any of our pets. We’ve even wished for the same in our own demise. But sitting here in the shadow of Cam’s death, I find myself burdened by responsibility and guilt. Who am I to say that, given the choice, she would have preferred a hastened death to another few days of mitigated existence? I worry that I have done the wrong thing. I fret that I have taken a life not mine to take. I beg forgiveness from anyone able to give it, then try contenting myself that I made the right choice. But did I? I don’t know. I return to the original questions.

I had no idea the after-effects of this decisions would be so hard. The circularity of my reasoning continues for hours as I hop wildly through the various stages of grief. When I finally stir, I notice for the first time that I am not alone in the room. Ari has been with me, too—curled up under the desk and observing me nervously. She is uneasy and seems timid, folded tightly in the back reaches of the desk well, where she might be safe.

From what? Me, I suppose.

I look down at her warily. My emotions are raw and short-circuiting right She curls into a tighter ball, as if willing herself to disappear entirely. But she does not leave; nor does she turn her face away. Instead, she stares at me from beneath the desk. She looks hopeful. She is watching my face carefully, as if to anticipate what I am going to do. As far as she is concerned, I am highly unstable right now—just shy of a crazy person, really. Whether or not she knows Cam is gone, she knows that I am—at least the version of me she has encountered for the past six months. Still, we have pledged to live as a pack. She looks as if she might be reminding me of as much. She cannot understand why I am withholding my affection. Has she done something wrong?

I have no way of knowing, of course, if this even resembles her actual thought process at this moment. But the faintest suggestion that she might be entertaining these ideas is enough to stir me from the depths of my grief. I am mourning an animal dead and buried, while a living creature cowers near me. This is not grief; this is cruelty.

I look at Ari again. She raises her head and tilts it just ever so slightly. It’s enough though—I’ve been studying her body language, too. She’s asking if it’s all right—if she has permission to come over and say hello. How could I say anything other than ‘yes, yes, oh please, yes!’ And so that’s what I do. She asks again. Are you sure it’s all right? Are you okay?

I’m not okay—not yet. But I love this dog, all the more because she is here to love. I pat my thigh, and whisper quietly to her. She unfolds her limbs and rises from the desk. For once, she does not resist when I wrap my arms tightly around her. I need to do this. She knows that.

And it’s okay.