Tuesday, November 16, 2010


I was falling from a plane and holding Wendy tight in my arms before the hotel phone rang too early this morning.

"Let go of Wendy and save yourself," I heard my moms shout.  "I will never do that," I shouted back as Wendy wriggled from fright in my arms.

As we fell down to earth I was thinking that it does not take a long time to descend.  I could see a lot of green and brown coming up very fast.

I wondered if somewhere in the fall there was a point where I could get back onto the plane and avoid the inevitable.

Wendy felt familiar in my arms.  On trips back to Number 11 we would play on the kept grass and I'd pick her always tense body up and set her down gently time and time again.

Though just a dog to passersby, Wendy was part of the spirit to me.

As we neared the ground I tightened my grip and our bodies slowed to a float.  I could see my legs just moments before we landed safely on the grass of Number 11.

I set Wendy down gently and she looked up at me knowingly.

"We gonna be OK Wendy," I said.

"Edmund Edmund is that you.  Good morning."

"No you have the wrong number," I replied trying hard to hold onto my dream at half past the uncivilized hour of 5.

Wendy passed just five months after my dad in 2009.

I laid her down gently into the soft soil of number 11 facing Mecca because moms wanted it so.

A few hours later I was sitting on my bed working through waves of sadness when our 8 year old Chihuahua walked over to me and stood up on her hind legs and laid her head on the side of my leg.

The aloof alpha female, Cindy, had come to console me.  Even now I can still feel her head on my leg.

I have struggled with mortality and life and meaning in the last year and a half.  Losing my father is still very much unfinished business and many frames of falling and not being in control haunt me. 

Just minutes ago I opened an email that read "Cindy passed away peacefully last night.  I am sorry because I know how much you loved her."

Cindy on the left and Wendy on the right at Number 11
I expected that she would pass soon.

I last saw her in September and she had grown frail and thin.  Her eyes were not so bright anymore and she seemed to be saying "goodbye".

I guess if you live long enough you get to know death very well.

Though the  falling is inevitable it is never ever easy to comprehend or to accept.

Until that reckoning ...



Eugene said...

Sorry to hear about all of your losses, brother.

Rachel recently adopted a three legged chihuahua mix. Life goes around, Bra.

I still miss my dad, and still feel his loss. It will have been 29 years this New Years Eve.

Ridwan said...

Hey there brother Eugene! Thanks for your kind words.

I remember you telling me about your dad and missing his presence in your life.

May he rest in peace.

I think about my dad all the time and wonder from moment to moment what he may have done or said.

Please pass my greetings to Rachel and the three legged Chihuahua.

Those dogs are not just dogs. The Aztecs/Mayans knew why. And so will Rachel (if she does not already).

My mom decided before Cindy's passing that she will not adopt another Chihuahua (Cindy being the 4th in a row over 45 years or so).

Their usual life span is about 10-12 years.

The extended family is now made up of the Leah the Boer Bull pictured on this blog, Founder the Boxer I saved from certain death two years ago and Mita the kitten (now big ass cat) who walked into my life a year ago (and they all live with moms while I work away from home).

I need to change that soon :)

I am very happy to read that the radio show went well. Wish I was there.

Peace to you brother.


Dade said...

A very touching post, my brother.

Grief is the searing balm that gives us our humanity even while it ushers toward our own inevitable end.


Ridwan said...

Beautifully said my brother Dade.

Thank you ever so kindly.

Peace to you.