NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!” Monty Python’s Flying Circus

For those who move through life struggling against change, suffering whiplash each time the Universe makes a mess of their plans, and laying awake at night fearfully imagining what the next jolt will be, 2020 must be one bastard of a year. The sarcastic memes that floated around social media in late March and early April depicting what was in store for humanity for the remainder of this trip around the sun – everything from murder hornets to the arrival of Cthulu – tickled my dark funny bone and made me laugh. Now, though, I find myself cringing just a bit and thinking, “You know, maybe we shouldn’t give the Universe any ideas…”.

Lately I’ve caught myself musing about how this is proving to be a year of crazy big changes. And while 2020 has been transformative on both a global and national scale, the truth is that every year is a year of big changes. As is every month, every week, every day, every hour, every minute. The difference with this particular Big Moment in human experience is that the changes are jarring enough, and there are enough of them, that we’ve been forced to notice. A global pandemic and soaring unemployment and police brutality and racial injustice and an autocrat-admiring U.S. President and a climate emergency were the slap in the face we humans needed to shake off our stupor (at least for a moment) and wake up. And so for the past few months we’ve all been essentially looking around, blinking in stunned confusion, and saying, “Huh, things seem sorta different…”. But change is occurring all the time. Incalculable numbers of births and deaths, be it at the cellular level or the individual animal level or the species level. Changes in ideas and language and scientific knowledge and technology and economies. Changes in atmospheric carbon dioxide and remaining polar ice and sea-level height. All are big changes. Massive changes. But for the most part they slip past us completely or take place at the periphery of our attention. Without question, this year caught us all sleepwalking. And then it woke us right the hell up.

While my partner Darin and I were as surprised by the start of this decade as anyone else (with the exception, perhaps, of epidemiologists, and civil rights leaders, and climate scientists, and… ah, but I digress…), our reaction was to embrace the situation. Alan Watts said, “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” That’s exactly what we did. With both of us working from home and our plans for a late May trip to Ireland scrapped by COVID-19, we decided to not only join the dance but to kick up the tempo and take it freestyle: that’s right, we added a puppy to our family. To be clear, a puppy had already been part of the larger 2020 plan. But the original idea was that we’d wait until after Ireland to take that step. The cancellation of the trip meant that the puppy schedule could pull to the left. And so, on April 18th, we brought home a seven-week old Wirehaired Pointing Griffon. We named her Rikka, and she has proven to be a wonderful guide into presence. As is true with most puppies, letting your attention wander too far for too long generally results in a reminder that there’s no place more valuable than the present moment. That reminder may take the form of a potty accident or a stolen slipper or a chewed sweatshirt or a chased kitty. Even now, at nearly five months old, Rikka is still quite serious that we remain present with her. If we think we’re going to mindlessly pet her while scrolling through Facebook or Twitter or reading the New York Times on our phones, she’ll remind us with a big paw or a wet nose or a slobbery tongue that splitting attention between one’s friend and one’s phone is beyond rude. And while her energy and strong will and silliness make me hesitate to call her a “grounding presence”, I think in a way that’s exactly what she is. Yes puppies are chaotic and exhausting and rather bitey, but they remind us that even when the days are weird and confusing and at times sad and scary, there are plenty of reasons to laugh. She reminds us that no moment is truly like any that came before, and that often times that’s a lovely thing.

April passed and then May and before we knew it June had arrived. Rikka had grown quickly and proved to be an intelligent and easy-going puppy. Darin and I were grateful for that, among other things. As hospitals filled and economies tanked and the nation erupted in response to the murder of George Floyd, we counted ourselves among the lucky ones. We had steady jobs we could perform from home without the added complication of homeschooling human children (homeschooling puppies is, evidently, far less stressful). We were both healthy. Our families were healthy. We had plenty of toilet paper (plus a bidet which ensured we wouldn’t burn through the TP stash too quickly).

And then The Spanish Inquisition arrived. Unexpectedly, as tends to be its wont.*

On June 17th, the afternoon quiet was interrupted by a loud crash as our four-year old cat Gordon fell from the hanging cat bridge. Though I was in the same room, my back was to the bridge. I did not observe his fall. I believe he must have gotten a leg caught in the rope railing as he went over. That’s the only scenario I can picture that would have prevented a clean landing on all fours. It’s the only reason I can come up with for him to have come down with all of his weight on his left foreleg. It’s the only theory I have as to how he shattered his left elbow. It’s the only explanation I can provide for why, a day and a half later, sweet Gordon’s left front leg had to be amputated.

As we drove Gordon to the vet after his fall, certain he’d broken his leg, my mind was a jumbled mess of fear and worry and stress. I tried to envision how he would manage in a cast. Would he be able to use a litter box? I wondered how heavy a cast would be and how long he’d have to wear it. I wondered if they’d have to fully anesthetize him to set the bone, or if they’d merely sedate him. As we waited for x-ray results, my mind fretted about a great many things. Amputation was not one of them. It never even got near the fringes of my imagination. So hearing that amputation would most likely be needed was like a kick to the gut. And though showing courage in that moment felt nearly impossible, the need to be brave for Gordie was the only thing that kept me from breaking down.

It’s been just over two weeks since Gordon’s surgery. I won’t lie: those first days were horrible. There was the helplessness of the day and a half with him at home in a drugged haze (though we were all in a haze, only Gordie was drugged), awaiting surgery. We grieved the pending loss of his limb and we feared for his future wellness. When we brought him home the day after surgery, his obvious confusion and discomfort broke my heart. I blinked away tears as I watched him dip his left shoulder in an attempt to dig in his litter with a leg that was by then only a memory. Without question, during those first few days I balanced precariously on the edge of accepting this change and railing against it. As a student of Yogic, Buddhist, and Taoist philosophies, I’m all too aware that attachment is at the root of human suffering. I know that my roiling emotions were based, in part, on my attachment to the conditions of our lives before Gordon’s fall. I know that now and I knew that in the moments that I wanted to rage at the universe. I reminded myself that our flesh and bones and fur are just part of our meat suits; we are not our bodies, and I knew that was as true for my little guy as it is for me. Gordon would be Gordon regardless of an outward change to his meat suit. I told myself all these truths. But, fuck! It hurt to see him like that. It hurt to know he’d lost a leg and would be confused and I would not be able to explain it to him. See, the thing is, knowing the reason for the suffering doesn’t invalidate the suffering. I allowed myself to suffer. I let myself ache. I felt it all. I cried. Darin and I both cried. And then a few days passed and we saw Gordon’s mood improving. We realized he was purring as we loved on him. He started to rub against my leg, and although he lost his balance a couple of times, he eventually got the hang of it. He became excited for his treats. We realized he wasn’t crying. While we were wasting time feeling bad for him, he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. The only negativity he seemed to display was irritation at being confined to my writing room for two weeks. Gordon was more than ready to move on. Alan Watts would have been proud. And so we wiped our tears and we followed Gordie’s lead.

Things are looking up. Gordon’s on the road to recovery. It’s going to take some time for him to gain strength and three-legged endurance. It’s going to take time for him become confident around Rikka again. And the other two cats (Kevin, nine years old, and Steven, just under a year), are a bit unsure of him. In their defense, just as Gordon doesn’t understand where his leg went, Kev and Stevie are likely confused as to why their brother now has a bit of a hop to his step. Though, truth be told, the kitten has been quicker to accept tripaw Gordie than the older guy has. But, despite the craziness of the puppy and the lack of sympathy from his brothers, Gordon’s eating well and moving well. Each day he shows improvement, and I’m sure as hell noticing and celebrating all those little changes.

I know that this present period of easy breathing and low stress won’t last. Nothing lasts, and that’s really the point. Without change, we wouldn’t exist. Life is constant change. Hell, non-life is change: canyons and mountains and pebbles and sea water and viruses, well, everything, exists because of change and everything is currently changing. At the moment, the changes I’m observing in our family are pleasant ones: Rikka’s growth and the relationships she’s forming with me, Darin, and the cats; Gordon’s healing; Kevin’s gradual acceptance of his three-legged brother; Steven’s acceptance of the role of happy kitty ambassador between Gordie and Kev. But as lovely as it all is, I know this period of relative comfort is temporary. And the impermanence makes me appreciate these little moments all the more.

For I have no doubt, The Spanish Inquisition will be back.

And just when I least expect it.

* If the Spanish Inquisition references have you furrowing your brow in confusion, be sure to head to YouTube when you finish reading this post. Check out Monty Python’s “The Spanish Inquisition” sketch.