Millie

At 5:00 in the evening on Sunday two weeks ago, my phone rang. It was Maria next door, distraught. She and Brad had been walking the dogs in the woods near the middle school when the smallest and most fearless of them, Millie, had been grabbed by a coyote and taken off into the woods. Maria had hurriedly brought the other dogs home; could I drive her back to the middle school where it had happened and where Brad was still searching the woods?

It was dark when we got there. Brad said that he had seen the shadows of the coyotes, heard Millie scream, then silence. We blundered around in the woods, shining our flashlights around us and calling into the night. Taken by a pack of coyotes, there was no way she was alive, no chance that we could even find her body. Every now and then we sat down and wept. Finally I drove Brad and Maria home. Their house was heavy with grief. I made them some dinner, fed the other dogs, told Brad and Maria I'd call later, and went home. Amy and I both woke at 5:00 the next morning, thinking of Millie and feeling sad.

Around noon that next day, my cell phone rang. "Millie's alive," Maria said. "A guy found her in the woods, all ripped up, when he was walking his dog. He took her to the vet hospital; they don't know if she'll live or not." But Millie has a strong spirit (Amy calls her "intrepid"). The vet sewed Millie up, gave her painkillers and antibiotics, and a few days later she went home.

Much of Millie's fur was shaved off so the vet could treat the puncture wounds on her back. Amy made Millie a fleece coat to keep her warm.

The picture above is of Michael, one of the other three dogs. Mike was bothered by all the changes involved in Millie's drama, but his main concern has remained whether he's going to get his evening bone.

Sometimes things work out better than we have any right to expect. A couple years ago, my car was hit almost head-on by a driver coming the other way; I was shaken but unhurt. A year or two before that, Amy had a tumor removed that was declared non-malignant. Two months ago a friend went into cardiac arrest; "I was dead for two minutes," he told me, "but I didn't suffer any permanent damage."

These "survivings" are gifts in more ways than one. They are pointed reminders of our fragility, of the reality of mortality, of the importance of paying attention to the loved ones and beauty around us.

Festival of Lights

Tonight is the last night of Chanukah. Even though the holiday came early this year, I was more conscious than usual of the warmth and light the candles bring in a time of gathering darkness. Perhaps it's the sharp cold we are already feeling, so early this year.

Chanukah is a holiday best celebrated in groups. We light the shamash ("attendant") candle first (one for each menorah) and then light the other candles from the shamash; in our family we take turns lighting candles in each menorah. While we light the candles, we sing the Chanukah candle-lighting prayers.

Once all the candles are lit, we always turn the electric lights off. We are quiet (as quiet as we get in our family); we watch the candle flames dance, and see the glow in each other's faces.

Last year, some weeks after Chanukah, Sarah and her friend Anna stood out in the snow with sparklers. They created their own circle of light in the immense darkness. Isn't that our best task in life?