“If you dread a day of rest from the digital world, then you probably need one.” –Sharon Samiento
Most of my daily life is plugged in to technology. I spend a minimum of 10 hours a day working, sitting at a desk, utterly focused on my computer and cellphone. When I’m “off the clock,” many of life’s pleasures also take place in front of screens: writing, reading on a Kindle, watching movies or Netflix, browsing the internet or playing video games.
Such a technology-based life feeds my curiosity — and pays the bills — but when combined with the madness of the news cycle, it can be hell on the body and soul. I don’t breathe normally anymore, in that I have to remind myself to do it, deeply and purposefully, or else the air I consume is shallow. Sitting upright in a chair takes mindfulness; the posture of slumped shoulders is so easy to assume when you’re focused outside of your body.
I crave quietness more than I used to, quietness of environment and of the mind. At least for a little while.
So, I’m going to reclaim a day each week to unplug and decompress. Abby Falik takes a similar secular sabbath. The founder and CEO of Global Citizen Year, a nonprofit that channels teenage wanderlust toward social good, recently told the Books of Your Life podcast that the practice had made her more productive in the rest of her life.
Just what will I do with that day? Why, I’ll read, of course, but books in a dead-tree format (paperback and hardcover) rather than an electrical one (audio and ebooks). I’ll bake new recipes instead of just collecting ideas from food blogs. I’ll write letters and poems, stories and novels in longhand; such scribblings can easily be transcribed into the computer later for editing purposes. And, I’ll do my best to get outside more. As a writer, it’s so easy to become homebound and isolated. Yet inspiration comes from outside forces as well as imaginative ones.
Trying new activities, exploring unknown places and generally saying yes to non-techy adventures will, I hope, make me a little less stressed and a lot more inspired.
“Night is not something to endure until dawn. It is an element like wind or fire. Darkness is its own kingdom; it moves to its own laws, and many living things dwell in it.” –Patricia A. McKillip
Duncan Hines. Duncan Donuts. The Duncanator. Puppyface. He was a dog known by many names, but the one he officially received upon his appearance in our lives back in 2010 was Duncan Walker Weir.
He died last night at the age of 9 after suffering from a brain tumor.
Duncan was part of a litter of puppies born on a Vermont farm. As a birthday present to himself, Marcus adopted Duncan on the same day his friend Sherry adopted Duncan’s brother, Shakazulu. This meant the pups, who were nearly identical, would be able to spend their lives together.
If we went out of town, Duncan would stay at Shaka’s house and vice versa. It was during one of these visits that the brothers invented the game “Chase Me”:
After one such sleepover at our place, Sherry and Shaka got into their car to head home. Apparently Duncan didn’t want them to leave yet so he broke away from M’s grasp and chased after their car. Several drivers swerved to avoid him, but one vehicle struck Duncan and kept going, leaving his broken body on the side of the road. As neighbors sped after the hit-and-run driver, M raced to Duncan’s side.
Duncan survived the collision, thanks to the skills of emergency vets at the local animal hospital. He suffered multiple contusions and a broken hip that required both an operation and months of confinement. Eventually, Duncan did heal, but he never saw his brother again. Just before Duncan’s rehab was complete, another hit-and-run driver crashed into his brother. Sweet Shaka didn’t survive.
Once back on his feet, Duncan resumed his favorite activities: playing an abbreviated version of fetch (he refused to bring the ball back more than once or twice), rolling in the grass with his feet wildly dancing in the air, going on leashless hikes through the woods, running through fallen leaves, bathing in snow drifts and chewing on his toys.
The cats helped to raise Duncan so he never treated them like the enemy. Instead, he learned to purr as a sign of happiness (it sounded like a piggy grunt) and paid extra careful attention to his grooming habits. He befriended the neighbor’s outdoor tomcat, every squirrel who appeared in our yard and, unfortunately, a couple of less-than-thrilled skunks who he probably assumed were just smelly cats. After a litter of kittens arrived at our home last fall, Duncan immediately became their 90 lb. “big brother,” teaching them how to wrestle and beg for ham. And when our friends adopted a Golden Retriever puppy with special needs earlier this month, Duncan showed her the ropes.
Strangers who met Duncan would often ask about his ancestry. We tended to describe him as a “Heinz 57” dog (i.e., a mixture of several breeds, an all-around mutt). Over the years, M and I agreed that he appeared to be a unique combination of German Shepherd, some sort of retriever, a bit of husky and possibly a smidge of beagle.
Duncan generally preferred the company of women to men, though he made special allowances for the “pizza man.” This probably had more to do with the fact that we gave Duncan bits of our pizza crusts than an affinity for the fellow who delivered the pie. While kibble was his main source of sustenance and he was taught from an early age that it was impolite to beg, he still enjoyed the occasional piece of carrot, a hunk of cream cheese, a slice of salami and once, a stolen plate of pork chops.
Duncan kept me company while I worked through the night. Until illness affected his ability to climb stairs, he also rested near my bed while I slept during the day. He liked reclining on the loveseats and on the big dog pillows, but would forego these spots if the kitties were sleeping there first. The very best place to rest, however, was at our feet or by our side. He just loved being near “his people.”
In the few extended periods that we were separated from him, caregivers would remark on Duncan’s habit of waiting by the door or peering through the window, as if willing us to return.
Even if we just went out to eat for dinner or to a movie, we’d find him waiting at the garage door, his expression and demeanor making it clear that it felt like we had been gone forever. This was even more true for M, who was Duncan’s favorite. Anyone who spent time in our house saw that Duncan loved us both, yet he worshiped and adored M.
The two of them were boon companions. They swam together, did chores together, even went to work together. People on the hiking trails knew Duncan by sight, for he was friendly and well-behaved. M was simply known as “Duncan’s dad.” And when their stubborn personalities occasionally clashed, any disagreements were quickly forgiven.
Once we learned that Duncan had only a few months left to live, we vowed to make the most of that time. So we gave Duncan belly and chest rubs, balls and toys, rides and runs, so many treats and lots of love. When the cancer began to affect his sight, mobility and demeanor, we decided it was time to put him down.
Last night, after the vet gave Duncan the first shots — the ones that put him to sleep — he continued to look at us with his big, brown eyes. We pet his fur and told him how very much we loved him and it was clear he knew he would not die alone. Just before he received the fatal dose of medicine, Duncan gave M a few final licks and then he was gone.
Despite being a dog, Duncan knows when my husband is supposed to be home from work and will be waiting by the garage door at the correct time to greet him. Duncan understands that when he hears the shake of a medicine bottle, it’s time to take his pills (which are served wrapped inside a delicious slice of ham). And he comprehends when it’s time to eat breakfast because at 6 a.m. every day, he appears next to my desk and looks at me expectantly. Sometimes, he’ll even lick his lips.
M generally feeds Duncan in the mornings. Yet on weekends, he sleeps in and that task falls to me. Sun up or still dark, daylight saving time or the old standard one, Duncan will appear at my desk exactly at 6, ready to be fed his bowl of kibble.
This punctuality would be impressive in any 9-year-old animal. It’s even more so since Duncan has been battling brain cancer since December.
He was sleeping under our feet in the living room when he suffered his first seizure. M and I immediately rushed him to the emergency animal hospital and after a barrage of tests, the staff said it was either epilepsy or a brain tumor.
A visit to our regular vet — and even more tests — ruled out epilepsy, allergic reactions and even tick-related illnesses he might have caught. Nope, it was a tumor and the options available were not only expensive, but unlikely to help.
The seizures continued and they were awful. They would always start when Duncan was sleeping, as if he’d gone too deep into Morpheus’ realm and had encountered trouble while trying to return to wakefulness. His entire body would convulse violently and his legs would either move in galloping circles, like he was running away, or stretch straight out and lock as if he’d been struck by lightning. His eyes would roll back into his head, his mouth would foam and his bladder would release.
During each episode, we would kneel beside Duncan and speak in comforting tones. We’d keep his head from banging against the ground and count the minutes that he was under attack from the growing intruder inside his brain. Most seizures lasted a minute or two and then he’d come out of it feeling bewildered and confused. When his vision cleared, he’d look at us and not quite recognize our faces, even though we’re his “people.”
Longer seizures or clusters would leave him unable to stand or unsteady on his feet once he could return to an upright position. At that point, the pacing would start, a frantic trot through the house, that would continue until he regained his bearings in the conscious world. Nothing consoled him during this period so we would use the time to clean up the mess left behind by the attack.
Following examinations from a third vet, we began experimenting with all sorts of palliative options, such as acupuncture, massage, special “brain” food to boost his immune system and cognitive health and numerous meds, anything to keep the dreaded seizures at bay. And for the most part, these efforts have helped. But we’re not fooling ourselves. We know that cancer is a bloody bastard, one that continues to grow inside our beloved pup’s brain.
M and I don’t have a clue about how much time we have left with Duncan so we’re trying to make the most of it. I just know that when he’s gone, 6 a.m. will be a painful daily reminder that he no longer needs to be fed.
