Letting it Go

It's about Allowing

Hello friends and readers! I appreciate the new subscribers that have joined recently—your interest in my writing is so heartwarming. Thank you.

I posted a Note on Monday evening about the loss of my beloved dog Oliver. Writing has always helped me process my feelings. The response to my note was rather overwhelming—still is. So many of you have been touched by the soul of a dog.

On Monday of this week—June 3rd—I had the awesome and loving responsibility of sending my beloved dog Oliver to his final peace. It is what we do for our pets and often better than we do for ourselves as humans. I have had pets my entire life. My parents passed on their own love of animals and indulged me and my two brothers with cats and dogs in our childhood. As wonderful as it is to have a pet as a child—there is no way of knowing the full responsibilities involved until you’re an adult on your own. Much of my career was constant travel—not conducive to long-term human or animal relationships. Once I began to settle down—I knew it was time. I’ve written extensively about the lessons taught to us by our canine besties—summarizing my recent 25 years of pet ownership in this recent essay Sixteen Paws.

Today’s offering will be brief. I just don’t have the emotional stamina to finish up a well-researched draft or craft a new one. My raw and very dynamic feelings about Oliver—and his powerful spirit—are guiding my fingers.

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In processing what transpired very suddenly on Monday, I’ve come to the conclusion that it happened exactly like it was supposed to. I couldn’t control it—certainly couldn’t change it—my only input to what God and the Universe were presenting to me was to manage my own reactions and emotions—and stay present enough to make a loving decision to protect the precious heart that had been entrusted to my care a decade ago.

Oliver was sick. I didn’t know that—but did know my pack leader was aging quickly. Ann and I are spending the summer in the mountains away from the Texas heat—and all six of us were anticipating a trip to cooler days spent in streams—hiking trails among the pines—and cool, starry nights. The type of trip Oliver has taken many times with me before and so enjoyed.

My attention to my rescue dogs is always acute—but I wasn’t seeing anything out of the ordinary until a few days into last week. His tummy had begun distending and I thought perhaps he had a blockage somewhere. An ultrasound revealed a tumor in his spleen that had ruptured and was filling his abdomen with blood. I was walloped but my decision was firm and clear—he would not suffer anymore discomfort than he may have already. I made arrangements for a home vet visit Monday evening. We all spent the afternoon loving on him and showering him with his favorite treats. Then we said goodbye to our family member while he rested on his favorite couch.

There’s a saying that is frequent in recovery: Let Go and let God. When I first heard this early in my recovery 14+ years ago my response was Whatever—sure—that might apply to everyone else—but I’m different—you don’t know what my life is like.

Like all trite sayings that stick around—it became a truism. Just like One Day at a Time or Easy Does It or First Things First or This Too Shall Pass.

They weren’t talking about letting go of drinking—I’d already pretty much done that after a 93-day stay at Betty Ford. What they meant—those wise old sober MFs—was to let go of the situations and emotions that caused me to reach for the bottle in the first place. Those things that I didn’t know how to cope with a sober mind.

Isn’t it less about letting go and more about allowing? I’ll never let go of Oliver. I will allow the emotions to rise and travel their course. Let me explain.

Many traumatic or transitory things have happened in my life in the 14+ years since I embraced a life of sobriety and recovery. Sold my company. Worked as an executive. Quit my job. Moved from Colorado to Texas. Oliver makes the 4th canine companion I’ve mourned in that time span. Oh yeah—found love and got married to my beautiful bride.

We all have this delusion that we’re firmly at the wheel of our own lives. OK I’ll grant that I can indeed steer occasionally. But I’m not the engine or the transmission or the electronics. I’m not the steel struts or the air bags or brakes. The control I have is a light touch on the general direction—the speed at which I travel in that direction—and the way I interact and respond to the millions of other limited steerers careening wildly around me.

What I can do is rescue dogs. Truth be told—when I moved to the Texas Hill Country in 2016 with Oliver and his consigliere Willie to 10 acres of fenced-in dog splendor—I had an inkling of an idea to start a dog rescue operation. Make a business out of it. I had the space—the wherewithal—and the desire. I began volunteering at a wonderful local rescue and shelter called WAG. Wimberley Adoption Group. An amazing operation full of loving volunteers and a 15-year track record of thousands of dogs rescued and placed in fur-ever homes. I redirected my passion to volunteering and fostering when possible. Two dogs turned quickly into four within the year as I added Luke and Mikey to the pack. Oliver remained the stoic leader and I decided that four was enough at that point.

What I can do is give my dogs the best possible life they deserve. It may not be the way other dog owners do it—but for me it’s the only way. They run me rather than the other way around. I cook for them every meal. Steaks, hamburger, rotisserie chicken, lean bacon, and lots of treats. Lots of exercise and play is the rule of each day. In a few sweaty days of Bobcat and chain saw fun—I created a one-mile loop trail around the property—all inside the fences. Laps on foot or mountain bike—being pursued by 16 off-leash and full-speed paws (sometimes more) throughout the day. I put in a swimming pool for the hottest summer days. A large wrap-around porch with ceiling fans became the always and forever hangout day and night. Road trips to the lakes, the Gulf Coast beaches, and the Arizona mountains.

What I cannot do is control the outcomes. All the usual Texas country encounters—some predatory—rattlesnakes, porcupines, racoons, neighbor pit bulls, deer, feral pigs, burrs, cactus, barbed-wire, chickens, turkeys, and bugs. Some blood here and there—a torn ACL or two—skin rashes—some howling—lots of wraps and band aids and antiseptic. They wouldn’t have it any other way—neither would I. They’re dogs. They live a spoiled but not pampered or over-protected life. No dog parks for these boys—they live in nature’s Disneyland. It might kill ‘em—and in the case of our little Oreo it did—but they sure are having fun.

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Back to the idea of Letting Go. The concept has deep spiritual roots.

According to author and executive coach Anna Katharina Schaffner, Ph.D. in recent article in PositivePsychology.com

Letting Go is a spiritual and/or psychological process that requires relinquishing or lessening our attachment to outcomes, desires, and expectations and accepting what is.

At its core lies the concept of nonattachment, a principle that is central in Daoist and Buddhist philosophy. Nonattachment entails freeing ourselves from clinging to both positive and negative experiences, allowing for greater emotional flexibility and enhanced resilience.

Nonattachment features centrally in the Tao te ching. In this text, the philosopher Lao-tzu (2017/400 BCE) advocates a mindset based on acceptance and yielding and on an absence of striving and conscious effort.

In Daoism, letting go centers on the idea of offering no resistance to the natural order of things (Schaffner, 2021). It promotes a sophisticated form of submitting our will to cosmic forces by accepting what is and loosening our attachments to specific outcomes.

How does any of this relate to my recovery? In every way. I wrote about the massive linkup between letting go of expectations and unexpected and powerful outcomes earlier this year.

How does any of this relate to the pain and emotion that have been welling up about Oliver? Let me try to explain rationally while every fiber of me wants to cry out loud because I miss him so much. Nothing in my being wants to let go of the special memories of Oliver—and I won’t. What I can do is to let go of any guilt or any other negative emotions attached to the outcome of him being gone. These are the negative emotions that get stuck and make us sick. Guilt, anger, fear, self-doubt, anxiety, worry can all be crippling when we stuff them down and don’t allow them space to move through us in a healthy manner. I’ve been trying to let the feelings rise when they do—and it’s not always pretty or timely—but I let them come. A good hard cry is so refreshing. It feels like shit when it rises up in you. It feels better afterwards. Then you feel like shit again shortly after—until you don’t.

The process of allowing and accepting our emotions isn’t natural. Humans have developed so many defense systems against it. We cope—we stuff—we deny—and then it comes out sideways much later. I know as a recovering alcoholic that I don’t have that luxury anymore. I have to live in the feels. And it hurts. And it sucks. But only for a little while.

In the case of Oliver’s passing—I have no guilt. I know what a wonderful life I provided him. I did not know what was happening inside his body—there were no outward symptoms or indications until the 9th hour. I know I made the correct decision once I knew there were no other options to explore—and we gave him peace while surrounded by his family on his favorite spot on the couch. So fuck guilt.

I don’t have anger about what happened. He lived 12 years—10 magical years with me. Shit happens—people and animals get sick. I cannot control that outcome. Fuck anger.

I don’t have anxiety or worry about the remaining three in our pack. Dogs are exceedingly adaptable. They teach us so much about being in the present. They’re confused to be sure—sniffing around and missing Ollie’s powerful presence. But when it comes time to play and eat and snuggle—they’re all in and they’ll be fine. Fuck worry and anxiety—they bring nothing positive to the table.

What I have is profound sadness for the loss of a special dog. I miss the sound of his feet—12 paws sound lighter than 16 paws. He had a particular way of staring calmly and directly at me for minutes on end. He was magnificently handsome and noble. His fur was so soft and so snuggable that Ann and I often buried our faces in it. It is what I did as his strong heart stopped beating. Oliver was my morning muse. When I sat too long with coffee or in meditation—he would begin this long low chirp that grew into a sharp series of barks—it is time for our walkies! Right now!

I miss him so much and I have to stop. Right now. The words…

What I have is grief. Grief is such a difficult emotional state for us humans. We can stay stuck in it for months—years. I certainly am no expert. Other authors here on Substack and elsewhere have written extensively about grief. I’ve never had—so certainly never lost—children. I’ve lost friends and relatives. It is the hardest thing. There is nothing to compare and no reason to try. It hurts and it sucks.

As a spiritual being inhabiting a human body I know that Oliver’s spirit is somewhere out there—in here—everywhere. There cannot be any question of that. I would give up right now if I thought that our meat sacks and stupid minds were all there were to living in this world—it cannot be so. And so I believe. Because I believe it to be so—Oliver will come to me. Just as Bogie did. Just as Pistol Pete did. Just as Oreo has. Just as my too-soon departed friends Ronnie and Darrell and Jack and John have. If we’re open to hearing and seeing them—the messages come.

Just this morning as I was sitting quietly I heard a sound on the back porch just outside the kitchen door—it was Oliver. It was so startling that I sat up and looked—there was nothing there. Just then a beautiful Jay flew out from under the roof overhand. Then the dog door swung a few times as it does when a dog passes through it—all 3 of my dogs were inside the house. Could it have been Ollie chirping at me to get up from the table?

It’s time for their walkies! And after the tears subsided —that’s what I did.

What I can do I can do is to allow all of the emotions to surface—run around in my body—and then leave.

Eventually they will. Hopefully then I can giggle more often at the memory of Ollie’s follies rather than cry about the huge hole in our lives.

God please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage the change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Fuck—here it comes again. Oh Ollie my heart is broken. Don’t stop coming. I’ll be OK. I will heal. I do know how.

Thank you to so many of you who responded to my Note and shared your own memories of your special fur-ever friends. May they all be partying like big dogs together in tall grass and meat loaf. God willing—we cannot wait to see you again.