Each page represents one day and begins with the identical morning prompt. The same four thought-invoking words sit at the top of every page, centered above three empty lines. It reads:
I am grateful for . . . .

And each morning, I’ve written down my three responses. First—depending on my day’s schedule, the mood of the moment or how well I slept the night before–I consider my responses. Even in the worst of moods and stressful mornings, I can easily come up with dozens of reasons to be grateful. Since I began this journal journey, I stick with the three per day. I name something different every two, though. The third is a repeat. Every day, the one that stays the same is: I am grateful for . . . my dog.

In this season of Thanksgiving, I’m reiterating how grateful I am for the work, care and dedication that went into making my dog, possible. It takes a village to raise a service dog. Thank you to the village at the Service Dog Project for caring, teaching and loving my dog, Riker. Hats off to the volunteers who do so much behind-the-scenes (or barns) essentials, including poop patrol and feeding.  Riker is a healthy, beautiful boy and I appreciate the important role you played. A giant wave of appreciation to the trainers–Lynn, John and Haley–for your many hours loving him (including his goofiness, lovebug’ism and 3D drool) and teaching him how to help me. He’s a keeper and I am so grateful you let him go–to me. And to the donors who made it possible for me to make this transition to independence possible, a world of Thanks.

Transitions inevitably involve changes. I’ve met change in the past with hesitation, reluctance, the temptation to compare the past to what is now. This transition period has been anything but that for me or for Riker (though I’m still adapting to the daily 3D drool-wiping of walls, ceiling, tv, counters, window sills). Riker adapted readily to his new environment, his new humans. As we partner on, l continue to learn about about and from my dog, Riker. Thank you, village, it’s been a grand adventure so far. We’re taking it day by day, beginning each with gratitude.

“. . . for a rose by any other name smells as sweet.”

– Juliet, from Romeo & Juliet, Act 2 Scene 2

Were they to meet in the after world and strike up a conversation, Sir Thomas would disagree with Mr. Shakespeare on the subject of names. Tommy knew that, called by any other name, he needn’t respond.

I made up so many on-the-spot names for him throughout our time together. Rarely did we go out uninterrupted, whether while grocery shopping, dining out, walking down the street or in an airport bathroom. Someone always stopped to ask his name. Most often, the stranger was polite, if clueless about interrupting his work. The last thing I wanted was for the person to start calling out to him and really mess with his focus. So, I invented names. But Tommy never even cocked an ear when he heard Teacup, Spot, Sire, Ezekiel, Killer, Spot, Jehoshaphat.

He knew not only his own name but also the subtle differences in the nicknames he earned.

Tommy: The staff and volunteers at the Service Dog Project (SDP), where he was born and raised, named Tommy. Starting out as Thomas, I heard two versions of the story behind his name. One was that he was named after Carleen’s (the founder of SDP) husband who had recently passed away. The other was that Tommy was the name of a volunteer’s favorite baseball player. Tommy knew that when I used his given name, he needed to switch to work mode because I needed him.

Sir Thomas: In Act 1 of our partnership, I added Sir because of his graceful prance and his mantle coloring. He appeared to always be formally dressed, perhaps like a royal Shakespearian character. When he heard that formal version of his name, he’d stand and duck his head so I could slip on his vest because it was time to go out in public, time to work.

Tommy Talulah:  Talulah translates from Naïve American Indian as dancing waters. The only form of water that Tommy liked was the type in his bowl. Raindrops: intolerable. Beaches: overrated. And puddles? They’re earthly black holes! Dodge them, dart around them, leap them. Whenever Tommy shuddered at droplets or waves on the shore, I’d laugh and call him by this name. Ditto when a leaf fluttering across the sidewalk or a flag waving overhead was the cause of his quivering. He never quite saw the silliness of his reactions to not-really-spooky things, but he did calm and wag.

Tommy Toodle Doo: Preceded by Loo, loo, loo, this call meant Let’s hurry along. His SDP trainer, Megan, taught me the first part – she often used it to get a gaggle of pups across the farm. My add-on personalized it and Tommy knew it meant fun-run time. As a young guy, he’d gallop to me, often with a side trip of figure eights around the yard. By retirement, the fun-run had morphed into a slow, but still graceful, trot. Sometimes, he even add a side trip into the yard to hop-step a circle or two.

Tommy Boy: Reserved for nighttime, he knew the ritual: Last-chance outing, cookie treat, tuck-in, ear rub. Ensconced in a fleecy blanket, without any off-key comments or histrionic hands-over-ears response I’d otherwise get from the humans in the house, I sang to him my edited version of Oh, Danny Boy:

“Oh Tommy boy, sleep oh, sleep is calling
Know I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Tommy boy, oh Tommy boy I love you so.”

Retirement suited Tommy well, until the day it didn’t. In his final scene, he listened again to one last rendition as I sang and said good-bye to Tommy, Sir Thomas, Tommy Talulah, Tommy Toodle Doo and Tommy Boy. Maybe Shakespeare was right. Tommy by any of these names was just so sweet.

I’m convinced that Great Danes are humans, either reincarnated or dressed in dog outfits. What else could explain their size, intuition and the depth of grief when they’re gone? There are sayings that try, such as “Everything happens for a reason” or “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger ” or “It was meant to be.” To those sayings, I say, Hoo-Hah Alert!

HHA number one: Reason? There is no rationality about the plight of Afghan women right now. On a scale closer to home, I can see no logic as to why a young, happy, healthy helper dog gets lymphoma.  

HHA number two: Be strong or die? I’m thinking that a few of those women might rather be dead. Again, bringing it home, some biggies that should categorize me as The Hulk: I’ve survived a childhood stroke, lost my kid sister to lung cancer and have lived with Parkinson’s for sixteen years. For the past five months, I’ve witnessed the light in my five-year-old Great Dane’s eyes go dim and it’s done zippo to my strength. What it has done is made me sad and really pissed off.

HHA number three: Meant to be? Shorten that to mean and I’ll buy into it. Yes, it was mean that Brycen lived too short a life. He didn’t experience the best of his romping years and didn’t get to do the service dog work he became so good at doing.

Worse, to me, than the HH quality of those quotes, they strike me being so passive. For one, it’s like a shrug of the shoulders after so many weeks of actively monitoring his meds, showering loads of attention and watching for signs of pain or discomfort. Second, when shit happens, we have a choice. React or respond. To me, those quips fall into the first category. As disconcerting and painful grief’s array of emotions are, they need working through not whisking away.

If there are any words of wisdom that even begin to explain the brief time my gentle giant had on this earth, it is this quote: “We are not humans having a spiritual experience, we are spirits having a human experience.” Brycen’s great, big spirit has been set free.

The only time my service dog isn’t beside me–or at the very least in the same room—is when I’m out on a bike ride. My service husband captains the tandem, which means I’m in back pedaling while he pedals, too, in addition to steering, braking and checking the GPS. I trade a blocked view in front for the opportunity to let my eyes and thoughts wander.

It makes for a prime setting for a haiku to formulate. Words gather in my head as we ride. I take in the scenery and allow it to mix with my mood while the pedal stroke sets a rhythm to fit the poem’s five-seven-five beat. Here’s one now that popped up just thinking about a ride:

Lately, my service dog has spent more time beside me at home—as close as he can get. He needs comfort and regular snacks—the illness has stolen his energy and the meds render him incessantly hungry. I still think it’s the start of a really bad joke, ‘Lady with Parkinson’s and her service dog with cancer walk into a bar…’ Leaving him for a bike ride is both easier—he sleeps a lot—and more difficult—he doesn’t feel well and wants mom nearby. So, rather than a big vacation, we took a staycation this week and rode a loop on a neighboring island.

The haiku came quickly, around mile three. After toggling between two endings off and on for the next twenty miles, I still couldn’t decide on which last line to choose.

Back home, I sat beside Bryce. He didn’t mind that I was still sweaty and closed in for a hug. He’s the mountain peak, still there, still breathtaking despite the sooty cancer. Ending number one.

One hand on Bryce and another on my phone, I eyed a pic of a litter of pups. One of them is very likely to come home soon to start his training as my next service dog. No wonder I can’t decide one ending to the haiku. I’ve been toggling between sorrow and grief, hoping for as little pain as possible for Brycen and at the same time filled with appreciation for what’s right in front of me. Like the herons. Ending number two.

Beauty and gratitude. Mountain-sized, cancerous dog and promising pup. I’m keeping both to the end and both poem endings.

Here, in his final few months with me, my service dog is quite alert to my moods. He sidles up and leans in, part support, part an it’s-okay hug. I get angry, tearful, crabby about his diagnosis and it reminds me of an incident when anger and tears arose after the first few months of my diagnosis. It was during my yoga teacher training more than a decade ago.

In class one day, the instructor parsed the word, dis-ease, emphasis on dis. Ease is what the body does naturally, she said. Our ease is stunted by stress that builds up in the body and interferes with it. Do your yoga and you won’t be subject to dis-ease she concluded.

Objection. My neurologist had just confirmed I had Parkinson’s and I’d been practicing yoga for years. Parse that, I wanted to shout. It’s true that job pressures and relationship mishaps were rampant for me around that time, but they morphed into neck pain and lower back spasms. They didn’t grow into Parkinson’s — the medical world is still studying the causes of that. Stress may bring the issues to light sooner, but studies show that actual onset ranges from the unknown to environmental toxins (Rotenone, a common pesticide, for example) to viruses to leaky gut to heredity. There are so many bi-ways into the brain that can trigger the breakdown of dopamine. I found it dis-turbing having this complex, degenerative, neurological condition with no cure oversimplified into do your yoga. It was also dis-tracting from what yoga can do. It doesn’t block the body’s bi-ways that diseases travel on. Yoga does help carve a path through the wake of a disease’s symptoms that can cause such discomfort, disability.

Here, Bryce leans in closer, as if to say, emphasis on comfort and ability. He gazes up at me. He’s not growling or crying and I wonder if that comfort and ability will come after I let go of the dis– discussion, the anger, the tears. It would make room for what he so naturally has a hold on: dignity.