The morning of September 11th,
while the nation marked 20 years since 9/11,
A hero died in my arms.
My hero.
My Archer.
It might sound possessive to call him “my Archer,”
but those who knew him can attest that he was, indeed,
mine.
Because he chose to be.
Of all the people in the world, Archer . . . chose me.
Why? I’ll never know.
But I do know that I will be grateful he did
until the day my own breath stops.
If A Tree Falls In The Forest. . .
It’s been over a month since Archer passed away and I’m still having difficulty writing this. Not for a lack of words. But because saying it makes it that much more real.
If your best friend, working partner, and the biggest, furriest part of your life dies. . .
And the rest of the world doesn’t notice . . .
Does that mean it’s not true?
I know he’s gone. I was right there, holding him, when he went. But the part of me that doesn’t want to let go keeps waiting for him to peek his head around the corner of the couch again, asking me if I want to play. I keep listening for the shuffling sound of his paws on the floor. I continue to reach my hand out from the covers each morning, hoping to find his soft ears and excitement waiting for me.
To know Archer was to know unconditional love, loyalty, and joy.
Archer was such a wonderful being. He wasn’t just big. He was truly larger than life. And he was so FULL of life!
He was forever wanting to play, dancing and hopping around to try and lure me into chasing him when he had a toy or a stick. He was such a CHARACTER! So. Much. Personality.
His best Elvis impression.
Archer was a gift. A blessing. A much needed pain in the ass.
He played such an integral role in my healing that the two cannot be separated from each other.
Archer challenged me. He asked me to face my fears. . . and then stood firmly beside me while I did.
“I’ve got you”
I was such a wreck for so many years. . . and Archer loved me anyway. He kept me going.
Archer was the beating heart of my life. He was my literal reason for getting out of bed each day. He was my purpose. My link to the outdoors. My push when I didn’t want to.
Archer was my accountability. My metronome. Counting time for me. Keeping me on task. Connecting me to fresh air and nature and life outside myself. He was my source of personal responsibility. Taking care of him was synonymous with taking care of me.
Archer was my conscience. The shining light that called me out on my poor behavior in the most obnoxiously gentle way. Sometimes I resented him for asking me do what was difficult for me. But he never held my moods or my failings against me.
Archer forgave me for every bad day, every ugly moment, every temper tantrum, every raging episode, every anxiety attack. He forgave willingly. And without hesitation. Always. No matter what.
Archer carried the burden of my PTSD and all it entailed when no one else could or would. When everyone else left me to my own darkness, Archer stayed. He stayed and he helped and he loved me despite myself.
Archer asked for nothing. And he gave everything. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation.
Archer was my security. My safety. My strength. My courage.
Archer saved me.
After I was medically discharged from the military following my involvement in a helicopter crash overseas, "the girls" (my two cats) kept me alive. They were my tether to this life because I couldn’t leave them.
But when Archer came into my world, he became my bridge to life outside the walls and isolation of my home and my mind. When I couldn’t find the courage within myself to leave the house, I would do it for him.
Archer was my way back into public. While I learned to face my new fears, especially of public spaces, Archer stood by me. Literally.
I still remember our first outing in public alone, without the trainer. Costco. The checkout line. I started to have an anxiety attack. I had no idea what to expect from Archer. We had trained for public access, but not for this.
Without any command from me, Archer leaned in against my leg and slid his head under my left hand. I remember my surprise. But more than that, I remember how comforted and safe it made me feel. Archer understood what I needed and how to take care of me. He just. . . KNEW.
Archer loved me. Period. And bless him for it because I’m difficult to be around.. . and he STILL loved me.
Most people run when things get tough. Not Archer.
Archer CHOSE ME. Every time.
Other people tried repeatedly throughout our time together to win his loyalty. I can't tell you how many times people offered to “take” him, believing he would be better off or happier with them; if he had other dogs to play with; a bigger yard; if he was with someone less strict, etc., etc.
But Archer ALWAYS chose me. His devotion to me was unquestioned and unshakable. Even to the very end.
The morning of September 11th, Archer let me sleep in later than usual. Around 8:00 a.m. I took him outside, like we did every morning. He used the bathroom and found a stick to play with, like he did every morning. He pranced around, trying to tempt me into chasing him, stopping occasionally to sniff at an interesting scent, like he did every morning.
And then. . . he stumbled. His back legs looked like they momentarily forgot how to walk.
I asked him what was wrong. Told him to come to me. He did, but he was swaying as if he was drunk. I told him to sit down. He did.
And then. . . he looked at me. With that look, we both knew. He was dying.
Still, I refused to believe it. I kept telling him that everything was going to be fine. That I would take him for a walk in a bit and it would all be okay.
He lay next to me, holding disturbingly still while I repeatedly called the veterinarian. Could they get me in? The receptionist would have to check with the doctor.
Meanwhile, Archer's breathing became increasingly more labored. His nose turned cold. His ears turned cold. His paws turned cold. I called again. I was bringing him in - I didn't care if they had availability or not.
Archer rallied for the car ride, but his discomfort was growing. If I could just get him to the vet. . .
By the time we got there, Archer's tongue was beginning to turn blue. His breath had turned icy cold.
I heard talking. Maybe it was a stroke. Get him an IV. Looks like he might have something wrong with his heart. Could the ultrasound technician come in today? Probably a ruptured valve.
But Archer was dying. He knew it. And I knew it.
They carried him into the back. Employees only. I explained to them that he was my Service Dog. That we hadn't been apart for six years. I was allowed to go back with him.
From the table he looked at me, drooling uncontrollably as he struggled to breathe. He didn't care about the I.V. they were putting in - his only focus was on me. I wasn't allowed close enough to touch him, so I held his gaze with everything I had.
Finally, they moved him to a large kennel in an empty room next to the office. He was given a shot to help his heart. The ultrasound technician was on his way. Archer might have to stay overnight. They close early on Saturdays.
It was all just noise.
Archer knew. I knew. He was dying.
I lay on the floor next to him, cradling his head in one arm and stroking the softness of his enormous ruff. I told him how much I loved him. I told him how amazing he was. I lied and told him that if he needed to go, that was okay.
It wasn't long. Even though he fought SO HARD to stay alive.
As the end came, with his final breaths, Archer screamed. Something he has only done a handful of times. Only when we get separated. And only when he knows I'm not doing well.
It's a bone chilling sound. A soul splitting shriek that was imprinted on me forever from the first time he did it - leaving him to go to a dear friend's funeral in England, where Archer could not join me. As a caretaker at the dog ranch he was going to stay at started to lead him away from me, Archer realized it wasn't me by his side. It was someone else. He turned, found me with his eyes. . . and screamed. Then he continued to stare straight at me and scream with such incredible intensity that all I could do was cry while he fought with all his strength to claw his way back to me. A scream to tell me, "DON'T LEAVE ME. NOT NOW. YOU. NEED. ME." A scream to say, "NO. YOU CAN'T GO. I'M NOT WITH YOU." Another caretaker had to come help, dragging him away while the owner hustled me to my car. It was awful.
And so, with his last gasps, when his sight had already left him, Archer screamed. He knew. It was him leaving me this time. He understood that we were about to be ripped apart from each other. And he screamed until his heart finally drown in its own blood and could beat no more.
Oh Archer. You are so dearly missed and so deeply loved. It was truly the greatest honor of my life that you chose to be my companion and protector. I’m sorry for every time I didn’t want to play or go for a walk; for all the emotional burdens I put on you; for each time I took a nap instead of taking you to the river or the mountains.
Oh Archer. I can’t begin to tell you how much I hated having to walk away from your body after you passed. Even though I knew you were gone, I wish I could have held onto you forever.
Oh Archer. All I can say is “Thank you.” Thank you for bearing what others could not. Thank you for your patience with me. Thank you for your strength and the compassion you never failed to give me, without judgement and of your free will. Thank you for pushing me. Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for the unconditional love and loyalty you gave me. Thank you for choosing me. Every time. Despite myself. Thank you for holding me to this life and for the sense of safety I always felt with you. Thank you for being the truly beautiful soul that you were.
“Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships. . .”
– Christopher Marlowe
Born to a feral mother with a litter of seven in a derelict horse stall that had been repurposed as a wood storage pile, this is the story of how one became three.
Mia
Initially, only one had my claim. The tiny runt that no one else wanted for the simple fact that no one found her “pretty.” She wasn’t the ginger tabby or her two midnight brothers and she didn’t have the colorful calico markings that adorned the remainder of her siblings. She looked like a tuft of dull brown with a fat, round tummy and a smudge of red on her forehead.
She was “mi hija – mija,” my little one, “mi amore.” While her littermates played in groups of two or three, tumbling around the wood pile on shaky newborn legs, I would find her off somewhere by herself happily rolling in the dirt. She was . . . different. And I loved her.
“O, thou art fairer than the evening air. . .”
-Christopher Marlowe
Emma
“The queen” was later bequeathed to me when the teenage claims to “her royal highness” crumbled against the parental reaction of horror that tends to follow the announcement, “Mom! Dad! I’m getting a kitten!!”
She was lanky and devious and had all the markings that classify as “beautiful” to the common eye. Practicing evil from conception, she would toddle along, plotting to take over the world. She was bold when others were shy and she was deeply devoted to her mother, (although the sentiment was not returned).
Her defining moment came one chilly morning when she navigated seemingly insurmountable odds on her unstable kitten legs and painstakingly climbed up. . . and up. . . and up. . . up the precarious heights of the tall wood pile. . . just to cuddle against the warmth and comfort of her mother, who sat aloof above the reach of her other kittens.
And so she would also come to me, again and again and again, climbing into my lap or onto my legs, to share my warmth and linger in all things comfortable. As is befitting of a queen. And I loved her.
Together, at nine weeks old, the three of us would journey to a new life and a new home in a new state. In the days and months and years that followed, those girls became my anchor to the here and now. They would save me over and over again with their antics, pulling me out of despair with tiny paws, undaunted exuberance, long naps together, and the heart-melting adorableness that comes from witnessing a snoring kitten.
They slept on me, played on me, and tumbled their way into my heart. Polar opposites. Furry yin and yang. And somehow. . . I was lucky enough to end up in the middle of so much joy.
Today, Mia still sleeps at night between the pillows near my left shoulder, purring into my ear and reaching out a paw to touch my face when I move. Emma is forever finding ways to curl up on my legs, my lap, my chest, or any crook of my body that will suit her royal needs.
Mia is squishy and round, full of instinct and undeniable love. Emma is lean and confident and utterly domestic, relentlessly seeking attention and stealing my chair. We have journeyed across the country together, shared countless views and hours of cuddles. They are my heart. My home. My love.
And then there were three. . .
“Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter. . .”
– Christoper Marlowe
Archer
The story of his past is one of abandonment and heartache. Raised by a man he bonded deeply with, Archer was left when his human was in crisis. Passed from hand to hand and home to home while still a young dog, everywhere he ended up he was unwanted. He was “too big, too energetic,” and “too much” in general. No one could “deal” with him.
So he went to a hoarder home to be left outside in the desert heat with more than a dozen other malnourished dogs.
It was sometime in April when I got the call. I wasn’t looking to rescue a dog. But I had the house, the yard, the space, and the time. As these things happen, a person of a person of a friend called the right contact and that person called me. Saved from his situation, all attempts to find him a home had failed and he was going to be dropped at the shelter the next morning. Could I take him? I said, “Yes.”
That afternoon, the biggest long-haired German Shepherd I had ever seen came crashing through my front door. He was a neurotic mess of matted hair and bones that weighed twenty pounds less than he should. He was chaos incarnate. He blasted through the house without even a glance at me, sniffing and racing around and reassuring me that I was in WAY over my head.
In those first few days, I did everything wrong.
None of the limited training and experience I had regarding dogs applied to Archer. I tried to bond with him by sitting down and brushing him, not realizing how much he hates being groomed. The fancy bag of dog food Archer came with gave him the runs. The large metal kennel that had been dropped off with him as well was an interesting adventure of terror for both of us. (I tried exactly ONCE to calm him by putting him in the kennel and the wailing alone was enough to deter me from shutting him in a small, enclosed area ever again).
What Archer NEEDED was simple. He needed love and structure. After a few weeks of online searching for tips and a couple desperate calls to a local dog trainer, Archer’s true nature began to emerge. Eager to learn, fun to train, and passionately loyal, this handsome boy quickly became the companion that I couldn’t imagine life without.
Archer looks tough, (and he is), but he is also a deeply sensitive soul with a caring heart that is just as abnormally large as he is. He simultaneously embodies the essence of a stoic protector and the eternal youthfulness of a puppy. He is a master at sensing positive and negative energy and is friendly to all who are deserving of his kindness.
In less than a month of Archer galloping into my life, he began to intuitively sense my needs and started making adjustments with his actions. I had a host of medical conditions that had rendered me “disabled” and Archer naturally knew how to help. Together, we would begin training as a Service Dog team, during which his talents continued to surface and shine. After a year of training, (most of which was for me, not him), Archer officially became my Service Dog and we have been side-by-side ever since.
He loves snow, rolling in green grass, playing in all types of water, and porch sitting with me. We have explored countless trails, wandered down numerous dirt roads, and hiked through a variety of woodlands. Archer is always up for an adventure and his endless energy keeps me going. He is a huge fan of sticks, (the bigger the better), his ball, and his squeaky duck-duck. But most of all, he enjoys being with me. And I love him.
Together, The Furry A-Team is my primary foundation of support. The girls gave me a reason to live. Archer gave me a reason to get up each day. Without them, I would be lost. With them, I am found. If all the world around me falls to pieces, I have them.
They are my joy, my strength, my motivation, and my laughter. They are my “reason.” And I love them. More than words can say.
“And I will combat with weak Menelaus, and wear thy colours on my plumed crest. . . And none but thou shalt be my paramour“
Objective
Introducing ourselves is a daunting notion for those of us who prefer not to be “defined” by what we “do,” where we live, our age, gender, or beliefs. If we apply the same rules of Anti-discrimination law to our bios, the question of how to introduce ourselves becomes a bit more challenging. “Introduce yourself” becomes a command. A directive. A demand.
When recently faced with this question, I was suddenly overcome with a sense of desperation and anxiety. What do I say?? How do I quantify “WHO” I am??
As our resumes suggest, it is our experiences that define us. Separate us. Bind us together. Our experiences shape us. Make us unique. Original. (And ohhh, how we all want so badly to be original!). Yet, to simply tell our story is not the same as capturing the essence of how those experiences have created us as an individual.
Experiences create memories. Pictures in our minds, strung together with bits of sound and strands of emotion. A scent here, a taste there. A pinch of nostalgia, a dash of pain. Like a camera, we can switch out the lens and change the perspective of the story.
Personal Information
I have had the “angry victim” lens on for a LONG time. It’s not so much a red color as it is a sickly yellow. The color of festering hurt, oozing from the old, the new, and the untended wounds of the soul.
But I am also a dreamer who easily throws up a rosy soft lens. Tinted with hues of “what if” and glitter, I happily distort my own reality in favor of a fuzzy warm future of perceived perfection. Where someone is undoubtedly baking cookies close by and the laughter of “not alone” can be heard with windchimes in a delicate breeze.
I had this star-dusted lens up for a few months this past year. While the world suffered under the strain of a pandemic, I drifted through visions of colors and light and possibility. I traded what WAS. . . for what I hoped could be. I reveled in falsely amplified sensations of belonging and believed myself to be in love.
That lens shattered.
The pieces cut my hands as I grasped at them. Desperate. Trying to puzzle a way back to beautiful. Begging to have my dream returned to me.
But it was gone.
And I could not go back to ignorance. No matter how hard I tried.
“You were unsure
which pain is worse –
the shock of what happened
or the ache for what
never will.”
-Simon Van Booy
Experience
Who am I?? The question descended on me like an accusation. Mentally, I fumbled and faltered and stuttered to a halt. A lifetime of personal experiences and I was STILL clinging to the idea that my identity was defined by the worth that others assigned to it. I felt like I was. . . nothing. No one. At least, no one that had any value. Because I could not see worth or value in myself.
The worst of this “nothingness” came from the knowledge that I had spent the better part of the last decade coming undone and then. . . ohhhh. . . soooo. . . slowly. . . rebuilding a steady psychological foundation for myself. How could just a few months. . . after ALL those years. . . strip me so quickly of ALL the gains I had strived for? How could I revert back to the beginning of my undoing like ALL those years and ALL that work had never happened?
The truth of those years, I realized, was that the time and effort I had exerted. . . had been spent in isolation. Carefully removed from interacting with other people because they felt unsafe. A therapeutic biosphere of my own design. A life support bubble just for me, where I could flourish and grow at my own pace. Safe, yet completely disconnected from reality. All that time, I never reached past the boundaries of my comfort zone.
Skills
It was a dangerous combination of hubris and hope that led me to step out of my safe space, coaxed by the words of a person I trusted.
I was hopelessly naïve. A gullible fool.
Like a child, I willingly and unquestioningly imagined myself to be stepping out of my bubble. . . and into the welcoming honesty of another’s. My own challenges came up again and again during this process and, one by one by one, I tackled them. Oh, how courageous I thought I was! How brave!
How stupid.
While I was busy working through my “issues” of vulnerability, I didn’t think to examine the motives of the person I was stirring up my life for. I was still in my bubble. Daftly unconscious to even the suggestion that the bubble of another, which I was blissfully colliding into, might not be the sphere of safety I assumed it was. I trusted without thought. An old friend! A latent love interest! What wasn’t to trust?
Everything. As I would come to find out.
In a single day, the fantasy of hopes and dreams that I had euphorically stitched together with the thread of misguided belief that I was “special” to another. . . exploded. The blast shook me awake. Shocked me to my core. Dragged me back into reality while simultaneously hurling me back into the darkness of my past. It was all. . . a lie.
In the aftermath, I disintegrated. Into tears and anger and ash. Into nothingness.
I had waltzed straight into a hell of my own making. The discrepancies had been there, but I didn’t see them. Because I didn’t WANT to see them.
A few empty apologies and the devil disappeared as quickly as I had let him into my life, leaving me to burn in the fire of feelings I had assumed were mutual.
Education
It was a life lesson I should have learned YEARS ago. Not NOW. Not at my age. Not after I had worked SO hard to overcome the pain and loss of identity that marked the last decade. This was supposed to be “my time.” My fresh and healthy new beginning. The culmination of all my progress expressed in the realization of something POSITIVE that fulfilled my deepest desires for connection, intimacy, and the possibility of sharing myself with another. Not THIS. Not the lesson of teenage broken hearts and the crushed delusions of youth.
Yet, there I was. Standing in the mess of my own ignorance. Completely lost. Undone. Again.
Awards
In the nothingness I felt, (and yes, still feel – if I’m being honest), the question, “Who am I?” has continued to plague me. How can I even begin to introduce myself when I feel so. . . blank? And in that question, I found my answer. I am blank. Unwritten. Void.
It is from the void that all potential exists. From nothingness comes life. Creation.
And so, here I am. Beginning. Again. A blank resume.
Sunday mornings are a world unto themselves. Perfection. A silence descends on the town and, for one day, one morning, surrenders the stage to nature.
It is a reverence created not of religion; a holiness greater than humanity itself. Today, the birds sing in an uncontested chorus. The Mountain preaches a wordless message to all from it's pulpit of peaks. The Sun radiates praise in streaming rays of pixelated warmth. This is divinity.
An entire host of pine green angels and red bark reaching upward. Heaven is not on the pages of a leather bound book. It is here. Outside my window at the busy bird feeder. It is the crunch of the hard packed dirt road that wanders to the house. It is the red adobe that captures the heat and holds it lovingly for those who wish to rest in peace against it's walls.
The eternal lies between the creamy dotted wingspan of the Red-Tailed Hawk above and the tiny purple flowers that carpet the budding earth, heralding the beginning of spring. This is paradise. This is the blessing of Sunday mornings.
Springtime in the high desert is a lesson in patience. Bright blue skies and sunny afternoons whisper tempting ideas, urging me to dig and plant and grow, grow, grow! Tiny buds are appearing all around and it seems as though a thin layer of green suddenly appeared overnight. The whispers continue. Garden! Sow! Create! Right now, now, NOW! It is the steady hand of the weather forecast that reminds me of this lesson I have to relearn each year. Patience.
Random snowstorms that melt by mid-morning check my impulses. Unexpected cold fronts that can freeze the apricot blossoms in May are the stern teachers of hard truths. W.A.I.T.
And so I admire the bright yellow daffodils that my neighbor cultivated years ago. . . and keep walking. I notice the robust tulip leaves beginning to poke through the soil. . . and keep walking. My garden will come soon. But not yet. Patience.
Little Girl Big Sky 