D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
June 2010
The Act of Dying
Do critters fear age and death like we do?
I glanced at the old man as I passed by; he stood ramrod straight, yet I was startled at his old age. He sported a full head of almost pure white hair, and his full beard matched it in color, or the lack of thereof. A myriad of tiny wrinkles rimmed his eyes, and farther down his body lay a paunch about his midsection. I could tell he was truly in the beginning of the wintertime of his many years.
I stopped and stared full-blown at him, incredulous at his appearance. That image in the mirror looked me back: When had I gotten so old?
That incident happened in the early months of the year, and since then I have thought much on the subject of death. I honestly don't fear death itself; I know where I will go when it happens. But what does give me trepidations is: How I will die?
Will it be slow and painful, debilitating in its very nature, or will I go mercifully and with much swiftness? Will I even know when it's coming, or will it take me by surprise?
Along with these thoughts since that day of revelation, I have often contrasted myself with wildlife and their act of dying.
I've told some of you before that one of my favorite poems, which I think is most profound, is by D.H. Lawrence; it is entitled, "Self Pity":
I never saw a wild thing feel sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
Without ever having felt sorry for itself.
One past winter day, shortly after the mirror moment, I was on my usual morning hike around the property and I spied a tiny bird at my feet: a brilliantly colored western bluebird.
It lay flat on the ground, belly down, wings outstretched in the form of an airplane, its head straight forward and beak down into the frozen earth, the head not tilting to either side whatsoever.
The bluebird had not been there the evening before when I did my last hike, so it must have died sometime in the dark of night. Because its form was so perfect, I assumed that it had died quite suddenly.
I pondered, "Had it known it was going to die? If so, did it fight it, or succumb peacefully, accepting its final destiny with stoicism?" These thoughts and the final beauty of the bird haunted me all that day.
For nearly four and a half years, we had a resident male Phainopepla bird guarding our front gate to the property. It was a beautifully iridescent black fellow with piercing eyes and a haughty crest on the back of its head. It also sported an equally significant and strikingly liquid voice.
He would sit in the elm tree just bordering the driveway, or in the oak just above the drive, and no matter the time of day, his presence was there. On many dawn walks, his melodic voice was the first to greet me.
Over the years I became quite fond of him, and I'd prefer to believe the feeling was mutual, for I would speak to him, and he'd leave his perch and fly above me and hover, before going back to his branch. He was my loyal "guardian of the gates," and I think we became good friends. I often could walk within yards of his sentry post, and he would not fly away.
Then, one cold morning in March, he simply wasn't there. For days, as I hiked or came home through the gates, I'd look about for him. Even now, two months later, I still on occasion peer about, hoping.
Again, I assume death took him. Was he old like I'm getting? Did he, too, ever gaze into a clear puddle of water and become startled at his image, and think, "Bird, you've gotten really old!"
For that matter, do any of God's critters know when they get old, and do they in fact ponder it like we humans do? Do they embrace death as a natural part of life or do they fear it, too?
The other day my dog Buko caught a jackrabbit; it set up a terrible squallerin' until my wife Jeri made her drop it. The rabbit lay there for several seconds before it revived and slowly trotted off.
Was it squallerin' because it was in Buko's jaws, or because it thought it was dying?
Over the years I've lost quite a few dogs to death. We always had more than one dog in the pack at any given time. In any event, never once did the surviving hounds act like they missed the dead companion. Even when I'd test the survivors, days to months later, by saying the departed dog's name, none acted like they knew what I was saying.
Back in 2006, when my heart stopped, I was considered technically dead. I remember, though, that during that brief time, my brain kept functioning; I kept observing, thinking and reacting with my brain.
That taught me a lesson: A person is not dead until the brain quits functioning, never mind the heart or any other body part. The thought process, and therefore life, goes on until the last vestige of oxygen is obliterated.
Do animals lie there pondering their last moments on earth after their heart has stopped beating, too? After all, they do have a brain and some sort of thinking ability.
As most of you know, if you've read my materials for any length of time, I'm a Biblicist; that means I believe all of what the Good Book has to say, and in it, it tells me that once a soul is born, it is for eternity, even after physical death has arrived. And when that soul experiences those final throes of life, it will pass on to one place or the other for all of time.
I ponder if that is the destiny of all of the Lord's critters, or do they merely turn back into the dust whence they were formed?
As always keep the sun forever at your back, the wind forever in your face, and may the Forever God bless you too right up until your final act.
When not Ramblin' Outdoors, Larry Lightner lives in Silver City.