Red In Tooth
Shih-tzu's were introduced into the Chinese Imperial court centuries ago, and came to be bred as palace dogs. Only the most docile, patient and cheerful of dogs were allowed. For all their energy, they are incredibly refined and can easily have a regal way of going about life.
Today was a stark reminder that 1,000 years of palace breeding can't overturn thousands of years of instinct. For as small as she is, for as seemingly harmless as she is, Shady is a breed of dog descended from the genus of wolves. And old habits die hard.
Mel & I took Shady out for an afternoon walk. Behind our apartment building is a large grassy area and the parking lot for another complex. Given the number of trees and bushes, it's a place frequented by birds. One of the things Shady adores is chasing them. I never did think much about her actually catching one.
She raced after one straggling bird and disappeared behind a car. When she came trotting back, she had the bird dangling from her jaws. For all intents and purposes, Shady didn't know she had done anything morally wrong. In fact she looked absolutely proud that she had caught the bird.
I, however, was left to carefully extract the bird from her jaws and cradle it in my hands. The bird couldn't fly. Couldn't move. It could barely open its eyes and feebly chirp. The only real movements it made were painful, spastic convulsions. Mel & I could see what had happened without going to a veterinarian: in catching the bird, Shady had snapped its neck.
A minute later, the bird closed its eyes, laid down its head and died in my hands. I've seen death three times in the last respective year, and all in different incarnations: my grandmother dying of disease and Alzheimers; having to put Shady's puppy down; and now this.
One common bond ties all three moments--the sense of complete helplessness. Unable to do anything, unable to simply stand by and watch.
Yet the bird was different from the others. It's the first time I've seen life end before my eyes. It's the first time I was there to witness what it looks like to fall into an eternal sleep. At least the bird died quickly, though I wish it had been instantly and without the pain I watched it suffer through in its final moments.
I do not hold Shady responsible for it. I feel I can hardly scold her for something as inherent as instinct. In fact I'm not disconcerted by the idea that Shady could do this; I'm disconcerted by having seen death one more time, and could do nothing to stop it, do nothing to ease the bird's pain.
Mel & I finished Shady's walk, and at the far end of a park, in the midst of tall grass and brush, we dug a small grave for the bird. There was no fancy ceremony. But the epitath that came to me still remains in my mind.
May you forever fly in the heavens. May you always have a home to return to. May from this day forth, your wings never falter or be clipped.
Death is a constant in life. It's the shadow that looms behind some of us, leers over others, and engulfs those unfortunate to cross its path. I saw the fleeting shadow of death today as I beheld that little bird in my hands. But I also saw something else:
Hope.
In that epitath, there remains hope. Hope for the bird. Hope for me. Death can break many things. But hope can never truly or fully be broken.
posted by Phillip at 6:30 PM
