Memoir:
Who loves you? Can you find an image of the one that loves you in your mind? They might be anyone, present or past. In your mind’s eye, imagine you can go and stand beside that special person and see what they see when they look at you. In other words, look at yourself through the eyes of someone who loves you.
These instructions come from a healing meditation designed to give a moment of grace and respite from one’s internal critic. As I looked around the room, I knew this was a rare respite for some in our group. Kindness can sometimes be scarce, and being kind to oneself can be a rarity.
When I first led this meditation with a counseling group, I was inspired to ask at the end, “Would you like to share who you selected as the person who loves you?” It’s not part of the protocol, and I rarely ask this question, but there was no shyness in the response from the group. Four of the group members gave expected responses – a spouse, a sister, a friend, a dead parent. But the other ten participants all had a distinctive twist: My dog, my cat, my dog when I was a child, my old dog, the birds in my yard, the stray I rescued, my kitten, my labrador, my sister’s cat, my puppy. The special being that loved them had fur or feathers.
It’s said that we are either cat people or dog people. The Cats are independent, self-possessed, finicky, and in charge; the Dogs are attentive to others, fun-loving, safety conscious, and devoted. Although I don’t deny the appeal of a lovely cat, the eyes that love me always have belonged to a dog.
Specifically, Zakhir. When I met Zak, he was in the yard of a Portland City detective, having been, against all rules, rescued by her during a domestic dispute call. All 70 pounds of him sprawled on the grass, and he was letting the detective’s two-year grandchild poke him, sit on him, and pull his tail. The two-year-old, about 20 pounds, would have been no match for a less patient dog, but Zak’s soul was plainly created out of patience and love.
Needless to say, we took this more-or-less flat-coated retriever home with us. He was shy, but his tail thumped constantly, in rhythm, revealing joy behind the fear. We named him after Zakhir Hussain, an Indian tabla player we adored. We didn’t know what to do with him the first night, so we unfolded a blanket on the floor and told him to lie down. He did so immediately, and when we awoke, he was in precisely the same position. As we stirred, his eyes tracked us. When he was sure we were getting up, his tail started thumping.
Our 16 years of love were full of adventures, food, mishaps, and cuddles. Towards the end, I would walk in the woods with him for a tiny distance, then make him sit on the porch. Once, on my longer hike, I heard something behind me. I turned and saw a shaggy gray, arthritic beast slowly limping after me. We were walking pals, and he wasn’t to be forgotten.
As the end came near, he could no longer climb the stairs. He would lay at the foot of the stairs and sigh deeply. We bought an air mattress and slept with him in the living room, thinking the end would come soon, in a few days, maybe a week. We would pack up the air mattress every morning, thinking this would probably be Zak’s last day. After a week, we stopped packing up. Six months later, we were still all cuddled on the air mattress every night, peaceful and in love.
Zak never rose to the heights of the cute, athletic, or perfectly well-trained. He was simply love embodied in black wavy fur— our love. And his loving eyes are still with us.
Judith Sugg is a psychologist who lives in both Manzanita and Portland. Nowadays, she consults with non-profits, and teaches psychology and yoga. She is married and her current furry friend is Leela, white, fluffy, with excessive cuteness.
