A Swan Song For a Dear Dog

My dog is dead, so is my beard. So it goes. On the other side of this Earth, I am not sure what to feel. My parents say she passed, with dignity and grace. Natural. Peaceful. I cannot, nor will I ask for more of the situation. A painless death, the last parting gift of this life to man's best friend. To my best friend. Now the tears begin. It probably doesn't help that I am listening to "Pathétique" by good ol' L.V. Beethoven or a slew of other songs from a playlist I've made called 'Everybody Hurts,' a la the song of the same name by R.E.M. Jessie, my dog, passed from this life, by reckoning of the Gregorian calender, last Thursday, Fourteen June, Two-Thousand and Twelve, of the Common Era. I did not find out until the evening of Saturday, Sixteen June, Two-Thousand and Twelve, of the Common Era. There are no ill feelings over the discrepancy. Here in what I like to call the 'Wild West,' by which I mean Ladakh, I am quite hard to get a hold of through any medium short of a physical conversation. There is not much more to say. My father has written a eulogy for Jessie, and in good old copycat fashion, so have I.

Here is my father's eulogy:

Jessie Bernstein has gone, we trust to a better place. Jessie was our dog. My dog. That “my” is a miracle. I was raised to fear dogs. Jessie changed all that.

Before I met Jessie, I thought that she would be our kids’ dog. I thought our loving children had guilted me into getting a “rescue” dog while I was away in NYC on lawyer business. So wrong. I loved her at first sight. She looked like Lassie. She was noble and gentle, kind and considerate, funny and sometimes (and endearingly) a little nuts.

Jessie was our good shepherd. Literally. She loved to herd us. Indeed, when Terese came home from out-patient surgery, Jessie climbed the stairs and the bed, and watched over Terese in Jessie’s familiar lioness stance. Terese and Jessie always had the bond of mother and child, but on that day, Jessie was the mother. She healed Terese that day. And on all days, through hugs, laughter, and frolic, she healed our kids.

She healed me too. In so many ways, my (incomplete) journey from fear to wellness began with Jessie. Now, I smile at every dog I see.

Thank you, Jessie. Rest easy. Rebekah and Doug will be Mom’s good shepherds now. You taught them well about unconditional love, as you taught me.

Jessie, you live in our hearts now and forever.

Amen.

Love, Dad

Here is my own, I have tried my best to make it an ecumenical, rather than Buddhist diatribe:

Death is not an end, nor has it ever been.

Just as the sun vanishes below the horizon, to illumine the world still in darkness,
Death is not the end of life, but its rekindling elsewhere.

That light, be it the sun or the departed soul of one most dear, is not gone.
It has merely disappeared from view, below the horizon, where the warmth of its radiance shall stir life anew.

Though coldest darkness may fill the void left in our hearts, such darkness always yields to purifying light.
This purifying light, the pulse of all life, the unbridled luminosity of the soul, is the gift of creation to all beings.

Though life is transformed, it is never extinguished.


Death is not the end, nor has it ever been.

Just as the setting of every sun portends a new sunrise,
The passing of this life, augurs the beginning of the next.

As we are consumed by sadness, it may seem that we are cursed,
Forever more, estranged from the light of our dearly departed; but this is not the case.

Death is not the end, nor has it ever been.

Be it in this life or the next, the familiar glow of those thought forever lost, shall be known once more.
In this reunion, as sure as the rising and setting of the sun, a chorus of souls rejoined, will resound.
In their luminous symphony, tears of sadness shall give way to tears of unbridled light;
The sun itself, if only for an instant, yielding in humility to such resplendence.

 Death is not the end, nor will it ever be.

To Jessie: We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
-Doug B.

Musings from the Land of High Passes

What follows are the highly disjointed, and quite possibly incomprehensible musings of a boy (technically a man) from the wealthy suburbs of Washington D.C., thrust into the high altitude paradise of Ladakh, the Land of High Passes. The properly composed, eloquent stories from trek that are going to win me a book deal will have to wait. Rest assured, they are coming on strong, like a bowel movement in the middle of a snowfield at 4800 meters. Let the ramblings commence!

Perhaps because it is the beginning of tourist season, this place is crawling with Indian tourists like my sleeping bag was crawling with bed bugs. Truly, and this is no exaggeration, there are more Indians here--from all over the subcontinent, not just nearby Jammu and Kashmir--than they are Ladakhis. They are quite easy to spot for two reasons. First off, Ladakh, though politically a part of India, is culturally, ethnically, linguistically, and geographically Tibetan. As such, native Ladakhis have the Asiatic and Mongoloid physical features characteristic of the Tibetan peoples so highly distinct from those of the Indic persuasion. Secondly, though I am tempted to describe the weather in Leh, Ladakh's capital city, as near perfect--right now it is about 15°C (about 60°F), sunny with scattered clouds, a light wind, and very low humidity (it's worth noting that as far as the weather goes here, today would be considered below average in pleasantness)--the Indians are bundled up head to toe, zipped up tight in puffy down jackets and dense parkas. Their necks are wrapped in thick woolen scarves and shawls, while most wear mittens and gloves suited for a snowy winter day. It's really quite funny. It only makes sense though that the ability to withstand inhuman heat and humidity, the average temperature in New Delhi right now is 45°C (113°F) without factoring in humidity, comes at the cost of being totally unable to survive in temperatures suited for human life. I get the sense among many Ladakhis, some being quite open about such feelings, that the Indian tourists are less than welcome; at least in private. I found much the same feeling to present among the Tibetans in Dharamsala. They find many of the Indians to be rowdy, disrespectful, and quite pushy. There is at least one accusation that I can attest to, and this is that many of the Indians have virtually zero respect for the environment or the animals here. They willfully discard their trash wherever they maybe, the same is true of many Western tourists. On the other hand, most of the Ladakhis I have met are quite conscientious when it comes to littering and always properly dispose of their trash; this is one of their main grievances against the Indians: they are destroying Ladakh's fragile ecosystem with rubbish. PETA may not approve of the way the Ladakhi's treat the street animals here, but the Indians terrorize them. They throw rocks at meandering donkeys and smack wooden stakes against the ground to scare off sleeping street dogs...

This brings me to my next point of reflection, street dogs. Wherever I go, I always seem to develop a strong connection with the street dogs. Maybe because they seem so kind and innocent and loyal...usually. In New Delhi, the street dogs are emaciated and dying. In Kathmandu the street dogs live short, brutal lives dominated by cacophonous fights that carry on from sundown to sunrise; but they still benefit from the kindness of the many Buddhists and religious pilgrims, particularly in Boudhanath, who often go out of their way to show them a little bit of love and feed them some scraps of meat. The same is true in Dharamsala. Perhaps this is because the Tibetans, among the first peoples to domesticate the dog, have such a strong and lengthy relationship with man's best friend, especially the sharp witted Lhasa Apso and the indomitable Tibetan Mastiff. The street dogs in Leh are a truly pitiful sight. Dirty, hungry, skittish, and absolutely terrified of humans. I am not sure why they are so frightened, but I have good reason to suspect it is because of the Indians who see the dogs as over-sized rodents, pests, and treat them as such. I'm sure the Ladakhi's are guilty as well, I just haven't seen any of them kick a dog yet.

The Frequency is Courage

-Doug B.

P.S. Go hug a dog.