Many of you have had the privilege of meeting Fenway. Fenway was a sweetheart though she might not have first let you know. My little fox without a neck (at least that has been my shorthand for her chow/shepherd breed). She was always certain of herself and always going to do what she wanted to do on her own time – even if that meant waiting 48 hours to go to the bathroom due to rain. She was fiercely loyal. Once she had chosen you, you had better believe she owned her role as your protector as she would display by taking watch just slightly away from where you were or following you as you went around your routine (maybe better she was herding you through your day). Fenway was one of a kind dog. We never actually knew her age – which I think helped her age even more gracefully. She came into my life in fall of 2012 having adopted her from the amazing Carter family who had initially rescued her some 8 years prior when she was anywhere from 1-3 years old. My 4 years with Fen - #fenwayisms - took us to 3 different homes and 2 different cities, 4 jobs, and 7 roommates. She saw me at my best and at my worst, constantly shedding more hair than seemed physically possible while constantly offering love and the silent reminder that I wasn’t alone in a way that our pets seem to be able to do in such a unique way. Shortly before Megan and I married in 2016, it became clear that our future home would not be a good fit for her as she aged, enter my parents. They graciously opened their home and life up to Fenway knowing full well they were going to be helping her finish things well. Their home is a senior dogs paradise – heated floors, a near 1 acre fenced in yard, and a fellow senior dog, Shadow, who whether either of them would admit it became each other’s trusted friend and partner in crime. Yesterday, I received the call that I had been trying to convince myself wouldn’t come. Over the weekend, Fenway’s health had started to diminish rapidly, and though my parents and I had already talked that the time was nearing, it was clear that that time was now. So earlier today Fenway was put down. And it’s hard. Harder than I could have ever expected.
One moment I feel numb but sense that next wave of loss and sadness on the verge of hitting. Grief is never predicable. It’s inconsistent and powerful. For me it is clear reminder of the reality of both/and while strangely holding onto the absoluteness of death. All of this over the love I had for a dog, my sweet Fenway. When animals enter our lives at some undetermined point they become a part of us and part of our family. Our connection with them can only often be felt in the extremes or in hindsight. Much like any other relationship, it is easy for us to take our time together and interaction for granted in the moment but when things end there is a mourning, gratitude, and reflection that must be engaged and embraced. So my friends, may we not take each other – or our pets - for granted. May we learn from the “Fenways” in our lives and take on the practice of presence, the practice of delight, and the practice of love.