Daily Rituals with Our Animals: Saving the World One Family at a Time, Update 3-2012

I first published this article on January 17, 2011. On March 8, 2012, the story changed: that was the day I lost my beloved Cavalier, Murphy. In the coming days and weeks I will have much to say about grief, dying, death, and loss, but for now, perhaps this says it best. Twice a day I miss Murphy the most: the times when it’s achingly clear that our daily family ritual is over, because Murphy is gone. The bed is now bigger, my heart is emptier, Alki is a depressed single dog and Grace the Cat prowls restlessly. Several weeks later we are still feeling our way through new rituals: Alki is beginning to like getting his ears rubbed, but he doesn’t snuggle as long or deeply as Murphy did; when he’s ready to get up he’s ready, although he’ll wait patiently for me to move. Grace the Cat comes up several times, early in the morning, both seeking and giving comfort, always in search of a gentle pet and a warm snuggle.

We are grieving, yet one part of me is watching this process and wondering: when will we know when a new ritual is in place? What will our new daily life look like when a new routine spreads itself across our morning greetings, and our evening good nights? How does grief change our landscape? How does it enrich our lives? We’re learning. We’re patient. We’re waiting. We’re wondering: how do you grieve, and what does it teach you about compassion, community, rebuilding a shattered family, daring to love again?

For now, this is what I know: Murphy’s ashes sit in a tin can from the crematory. I’ve covered it in her favorite blue fleece jacket, the jacket she would wear six months out of the year, inside and out. On top of that is her favorite harness: the blue harness she chose and that she hasn’t worn in two years because she needed a neoprene harness to make life with arthritis more comfortable for her. She loved both the jacket and the harness, and it is a bit of comfort to see them so close to her. Each morning I place my hand gently on her jacket, remembering. Each night I do the same. Does it feel better? No, but it does feel right. For now. The one thing we can do for our beloved animals in death is to remember and honor them in simple ways. I wonder, though, who will remember us when we’re gone?

We start and end the day at our house the same way: in a big pile on the bed while I tell my kids, one by one, with many hugs, how much I love them. And why. Every day. Every night. And I get lots of hugs and kisses in return.

What astounds me is that this astounds other people, who say they don’t even do this with their human families, let alone their animals.

Let alone their animals?

No daily rituals?

I have the world’s best family. They are two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Murphy and Alki, and Grace the Cat. I am the only human here (honestly, I can’t imagine a man I could put up with for 20 minutes who could put up with me for 10). I have extended family and friends I cherish, but the day-to-day life at our house comes down to us (and my crystal partner, Fallon, and the rest of the Alchemy West Committee, but I digress).

In the morning, when we’re finally awake, I roll over on my back and call my kids. We start with the eldest and work down. Murphy flops down beside me, her face snuggled into my neck, while I gently massage her back, and rub her ears, which makes her grunt appreciatively. When she’s ready, she gets up and Alki takes her place.

Alki, my tricolor Cavalier, snuggles up, but what he really likes is a neck and chest rub. As quickly as he deems appropriate he will sit up, turn sideways so his butt is planted at my hip, tuck his front paws to his chest, and flop over backwards across my abdomen (where my bladder also resides). Somehow he’s always perfectly aligned, so I don’t even have to move my arm, just scratch.

Our Beloved Murphy: July 16, 1998 - March 8, 2012

I make sure I tell each of them how much I love them, how great the morning is, and what we have planned for the day. Then it’s up and at ‘em.

At night everyone gets a treat before our evening gathering. Then Murphy cuddles in my lap while I pet her and tell her how much I adore her, how happy I am that we’re together, how she’s the best girl dog in the universe, and we review the day and tomorrow’s plans.

Alki’s turn is usually a deep massage, which he loves. Everything else is the same, except he’s the best boy dog in the universe.

It’s then Grace the Cat’s turn. She purrs while getting petted, then paws me and climbs on my shoulder to lick my head (I assume this is a cat thing). She hears the same things, except she’s the best cat in the universe (because she’s the only cat we don’t have to divide it by sex).

I have very little time to read in bed.

Every morning I greet the day and my kids with a smile and words of praise. Every night we end the day with praise and thanks for the day just ended. They greet me back.

The truth? Some days I adore my kids more than other days, which is exactly how they feel about me. Some days I adore more than other days. But I have my kids, and they have me. And we have our days, and nights.

When I hear that other families don’t do this, I wonder how their days, and family lives, really work. Do they just zip by, without remark, or appreciation? Does it matter?

I think it does. Could we change the world by doing this one simple thing—by beginning and ending our days with love and peace and respect for our families, regardless of the bodies they live in?

I say yes. I say we save the world, one family at a time, by honoring our families, day and night.

Simple daily rituals. It’s a start.

What are your rituals? What do they mean to you?

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz