On Growth

Our dogs name was Bhakti, which meant lots of love in Hindi. We got Bhakti when I was in the 2nd grade, my sister was in 4th. Mom took Maggie and I to a dachshund breeder with her best friend Paula. We were greeted with hundreds (so my memory says) of little wiener dogs, jumping from one couch to another, blazing in and out of the living room and all over our laps.

There was one dog in particular that caught all of our attention, smaller than all the rest she sat in her owner’s arms the entire visit. We knew who we wanted, it was the little black long haired dachshund. The breeder told us we had chosen her favorite puppy, but she accepted our $350 check anyway.

Bhakti was ours, the first and last dog we would own as a family from birth to death. She came with us on our weekend trips to Dad’s house where we begged him not to shake coins in her ears, she was just a puppy, she didn't know not to pee on the ground! She moved to Winter Park and learned how to swim in our pool on Fairway Avenue.

When Mom got too sick to function and she sent us to live with our dad, Bhakti went with her to the small town of Sapphire Valley North Carolina. We packed our clothes and Mom packed her dog. Our house was sold with all the items inside. Our childhood home was no more, there was no place to lament all the memories, be good or bad. No place to return to visit and sleep in our own rooms for the holidays. Gone were the days of smoking cigarettes while leisurely floating in the pool, walking alongside the golf course with Bhakti trailing behind on her leash.

Maggie and I drove down on the last weekend before the house was gone, we sat by the pool with our feet trailing in the water. The sense of loss was so immense. Our mother was gone, our house was gone, even our dog had somehow disappeared.

I spent many years blaming my mother for losing control and losing us and losing our entire lives, including our dog. Bhakti lived to be 20 years old. I can say with almost certainty that if she had come with us to Jacksonville Florida, she would not have lived as long. There would be no home cooked chicken or steak made specially for her in our house of vegetarians. No snow to play in when the winter tides rose, and no mother to be home all day to make sure once she had gone blind and deaf that she could make it from one room to the next.

It’s taken years to understand that sometimes the most painful decisions are the only to make. That out of pain comes growth and understanding and compassion.

Only out of mud, does a lotus grow.