This is My Body, This is My Blood

Slim Pickin's

No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does. ~Christopher Morley

I adopted this beautiful boy when he was two. He was found wandering the streets, malnourished and starving, and placed in a foster home. I'd stopped by to pick up some craft materials from his foster mom where over a dozen cats wandered around one very nervous dog. When I sat on the sofa he jumped up beside me and slowly leaned into my shoulder. I had not planned on getting a dog, but it was love at first lean.

When I brought him home, my husband, B, was sorting through a tape of bird songs in preparation for his ornithology trip to Africa. The bony dog ran over and put two paws on B's knee. B looked at him and said, "Hiya Slim," and it stuck.

Slim used to visit with us in our bed every night until we'd say, "Time for bed." Then he'd climb onto his own pillow on the floor beside us. When B and I divorced, I tried to manage Slim in the tiny studio apartment I found for J and me, but it just didn't work. Friends N &M offered to foster him for a month until I could find a permanent home for us, but it took six months and by that time they'd become very attached to Slim and I didn't have the heart to ask for him back.

 

They've been really good to Slim and he's lucky to have had two sets of loving parents. We've all been extremely lucky to have him. He's such a beautiful, silky, boy--part greyhound/part dalmation--and used to run like the wind. But at 11 years old he has advanced lymphoma in his lungs, is incontinent, and uncomfortable. Tomorrow he'll be euthanized.

When I showed up to say my final goodbyes Slim's cancer-ravaged body was still familiar beneath my hands as I massaged him. His breathing was labored, but he rested his head in my lap as if he'd never left it. Before I left I thanked him for being such a good dog, for understanding why I had to let him go, and for bringing me so much joy during the years he lived with us. When I returned home tonight, Bella and Moxie went crazy sniffing me. I gave them each an extra treat and lots of kisses.

I'm sad for N & M, who have loved Slim so very well, taking him on trips all over the country in their motor home, letting him sleep by their bed every night. I know they're doing the humane thing, the hard thing. I'm so very grateful for their loving care of this wonderful creature. I'm so glad to have had the honor of his company for three and a half years.

I'll miss you, Slim. Time for bed, Old Man. Sleep well, our silky, beautiful boy. 

Keeping In Touch

Oh give it to me, give it to me
I don't want to know much about much
Give it to me, give it to me
I need, I need, I need the human touch

~~Elvis Costello, "Human Touch" from the album, Get Happy.

You'd think a massage therapist would never take for granted the power of human touch but you know, sometimes I do. Sometimes I get so caught up in the day to day demands of heading a household and housing and holding all those dreamy heads I lose my place at the table.

Massage therapists will often claim they're not healers, they are merely vessels for healing. The downside to this belief is that in order to let that big of a love to flow through one's body she must, to a degree, get out of her own way. This dichotomy of receiving and re-gifting while simultaneously being accountable for the transfusion of touch is a tricky thing. When you get it right, when every moment feels like a dance between you and the gods and one of their precious children, it's better than any dopamine-induced trip you'll ever take.

But like most highs, in order to reach nirvana you sometimes take leave of your own body. And occasionally, you forget to come back. For me, all it takes is a tender reach, a simple hand on my back or a squeezed shoulder to send me keening toward home--that place within my body where the marriage of cell and soul feels complete. Somewhere inside these moments I remember why I do what I do,  why I need the same thing in order to continue doing it, and why, if I'm starved for touch, I simply cannot give to others from an empty well.

On my 48th birthday a dear friend offered to help me with a staggering list of neglected chores around my house and yard. We replanted shrubs, worked on the bike shed I'm building, took down old rotted shutters, patched stucco, and lastly, re-lit the pilot on my tenant's space heater. As we lay splayed out on the apartment floor--me with the lighter and M with the flashlight-- he looked at me and said, "Happy Birthday." I mumbled a thanks and continued to fumble with the knob. He rested his hand on my arm and said again, "Happy Birthday, Ellie," and this time I heard him.

Later that afternoon M rubbed my feet while we caught up on our lives, and I felt myself gradually return to the physical container that supports this delicious life. After dinner he massaged me for what I guess was probably hours, but time lost any linear quality as soon as I surrendered to the receiving end of tenderness, knowing there were no expectations, no strings, no need for reciprocity. According to M I fell asleep audibly purring.

In the days that followed, I felt strangely awkward on my feet, as if I were breaking in new shoes. Eventually I recognized that newness as a much-needed reunion with my touch-starved body. In an effort to sustain that feeling of wholeness, I immediately booked a massage for the following Friday with my current assistant, D. Next week I have another massage scheduled with a new gal I'm contemplating hiring for the day spa we're opening in Avila.

Today when the phone rings and I once again find myself standing at the head of my massage table, I will be steady on these bare feet, my hands will carry the memory of recent touch, and I'll be able to reach deeply into a well now overflowing with gratitude and good intentions. With one hand cradling her heavy head, one slipping beneath the sheet to cup her weary sacrum, the dance will begin again. One, two, three, breathe, one, two, three, breathe, one, two, three...

This post is dedicated to M, for the Best. Birthday. Ever. Thank you for mapping the way back home with your strong yet gentle hands. I really, really, needed that.