by Madeleine KandoOur little dog Max died. His little body has turned to ashes. He is in a little box which we will get today in the mail. We will bury him next to his brother Remy, under the dogwood tree that we planted in the yard, just for them.
But where did the rest of Max go? The intelligence and curiosity in his beautiful brown eyes, his desire to be scratched on his back, his excitement when he knew we were going to go for a walk in the woods? Are those things going to arrive in the mail too? These questions have haunted me since Max died.
Could it be that max’s existence has actually physically changed the neuron cells in my brain? That they have been imbued with a little maxness while he was living with us? So in that sense max is living beyond his own physical self. In me, in Karein, in Hans, in all the people who knew him and loved him. All the people he made so happy in the course of his life.
To Plato, the greatest philosopher of all times, ideas are more real than the thing they represent. Or at least more durable. To him Max would have been subordinate to the idea of Max. But ideas cannot feel, enjoy, suffer.. that is what the physical entity has the power to do. And once that is gone..
The idea of us follow us around, like elongated shadows on the ground. Max’s shadow is still here, when I go to the forest, when I feed my cat, when I walk by his favorite couch. His shadow will remain, maybe fade a little after a while.
I so want to believe in the permanency of Max’s shadow. It wouldn’t diminish the sense of loss I feel from the loss of his physical body. His wagging tail, the color of his fur, his big chihuahua ears. His ability to make us all so happy, just by being Max.
But what am I babbling about? Max is gone. He is truly gone. Max cannot enjoy the fall leaves any more. He cannot enjoy chasing the mailman. He cannot enjoy eating, sleeping, peeing. I, at least, can still enjoy the idea of Max. I can mourn the idea of Max, but Max cannot feel anything any more. That is the truly sad part. The IDEA of one’s self is a gift to others, but the actual self, since it just IS, once it isn’t any more, it’s gone for good. leave comment here
3 comments:
I just read your blog about Max! I'm sorry you lost a friend . . . Having had and lost very old cat friends, every one of your words rings true to me. Their shadows are certainly still with us, but they are gone. And although some of my friends disagree, I don't think they're 'in a better place' - they're just gone from us - who loved them - into nothingness, as we ourselves will be gone. Our ideas, our shadows, will remain with some who knew us, but I will not sing and you will not dance and that is sad as far as I'm concerned.
I'm not a huge Emily Dickenson fan, but I do relate to one poem she wrote after both her parents were gone:
My life closed twice before its close -
It yet remains to see
If immortality unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
How beautifully you expressed your feelings here Madeleine.
The idea of Max, what he has become now: a pleasant memory, an association and a link between things of the past, present and future may not fade. Ideas live on in non-chronological time and might be the very reason for a former physical existence (as in the body being a tool for transmitting ideas?)
But great! You've come a long way since categorically believing that the end of us is in a worm's belly tout court.
PS: Please accept my sinvere condolences.
Thank you both for your replies. Max will certainly be in someone else's belly sooner or later. But does that take anything away from the value of his existence? I don't think so.
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