Habits that Build Community
The first page on my blog was going to be about a policy order concerning dog parks in Cambridge. I will, in the future, write that post. Unfortunately last week, while organizing support around that policy order, I learned that a dog that often spent time in my local dog park had died.
So this blog post is in memory of Odin. He was four years old, a bulky bernadoodle, and one of the sweetest gentle giants in the dog park. He’s been tolerant of my puppy at all ages and sizes, and came in tail wagging, enthusiastically enough it was rare for another dog to make it through the gate without him entering.
I did cry a little when I found out and I pet my own dog, and made myself tea. To some degree, I moved on with my day. There is nothing I can do for Odin, even though I will miss him. I don’t know Odin’s person well, but I realized I could say something, and it might mean something to Odin’s person to say something.
It’s terrifying and difficult to figure out what to say to someone who has lost a dog. I know I was heartbroken when I lost my first dog, but I don’t want to minimize their much more raw loss by an ill thought out comparison. I remember several people telling me that hearing nothing when they were grieving was much worse than stilted words though, so I spent a bit of time googling ‘what to say when someone’s dog dies’, and then using none of those phrases to express my condolences, but a generic “I’m so sorry” was better than leaving the email not responded to at all.
I still feel the perfectionism that ruled my life a few years ago. I know a few years ago, that I wouldn’t have responded. It felt too awkward. It still feels awkward. I’m not close to Odin’s person, and to some degree I don’t “have to” respond. Still, I think it’s better to receive awkward sympathies than none at all. Once I did decide to respond, to do something awkward and imperfect, making a card for Odin’s friend’s people to sign was straight-forwarded.
Most of the people who bring dogs to the dog park are older than me. I don’t know how much older, but I believed that my struggle to perform perfunctory social niceties like signing a card or sending condolences was characteristic of me being a millenial (or younger), rather than a more universal experience. I was surprised that at least in the Danehy dog park, sending condolences for Odin wasn’t perfunctory. The words written on the card might have been generic, but the feelings were real. I could see the sadness, and it took many people a long time to figure out what to write.
The card made for Odin (for Odin’s person), felt more real than almost any card I’ve been a part of for some time. It weighs on me how many cards I’ve been asked to participate in, often electronically, that run on Chronos time - thank you for working here another year or happy birthday. I’m duty-bound to fill those in (possibly even paid to figure out something to say for a kudoboard at work), but it is mechanical or perfunctory. The cards I care about, or feel moved to make operate on Kairos time - I’m so sorry for your loss, or congratulations on your infant, or we are all rooting for your recovery. It feels good to respond to and acknowledge an event - even at work, it feels great to say ‘thank you so much for your help’ in an email to someon cc:ing their boss. It doesn’t feel much of anything to figure out what to say on a kudoboard months later because the employee passed their two year work-anniversary (and I’m obliged to recognize this pseudo-event).
I can’t imagine that there have been any studies on what being obliged to perform perfunctory etiquette does to emotions. I do know that something has happened culturally. I know several people younger than me who consider cards ‘cheesy’. We live in a world now that talking about emotions, and providing community care for those emotions will be seen by some people as fake and performative. I can’t do anything about that perception, but I can talk about emotions and community care anyway. If someone reads this blog and decides I’m a bad person because I feel proud of being nice, I won’t change thier mind, but I can laugh and wonder about them: would they have the same reaction if this was about winning a chess tournament? Do they value the ability to play chess more than kindness? Why?
I bought this domain almost ten years ago. It’s taken me a long time to be okay with my words being judged in public. I was waiting to be able to say the perfect words, only to realize by growing up that there are no perfect words, just relationships. A speech by someone I hate could be the best rhetoric in the world, but it wouldn’t matter if I hated the speaker. An awkward stuttering speech by someone I love would move me more.
Dogs move me to care without saying a single word. Odin wouldn’t have known what words I said at all, but he knew the emotions. He could tell what humans were in the mood to pet him. There’s a lot to admire there: like most dogs, Odin lived entirely in the present and acted on every emotion with a tail wag, a playful bow, or a gentle bump of the head. Dogs don’t fail to act because of shame or some fear of how it will be perceived. I think the human world would be better if we were all a bit more like Odin, a bit more gentle and a bit more loving.
If I could send one message to my younger self it would be to be less perfect, and do something. When moved to - send that card (on awkward craft paper, with bad line drawings) - post that blog post - show caring where you can. I can’t recommend sharing gratitude and condolences enough - the real thing. It builds relationships and community, and helps cure loneliness almost as much as having a dog.
Rest in peace, Odin.