Understanding Death

One day, my mom and dad were having a conversation about Aunt Gloria’s passing away, and funeral arrangements.

I was there too, playing with my parakeet. I absolutely loved that bird. I named him Punkin, P-U-N-K-I-N, because I didn’t know how to spell pumpkin. He was the most beautiful bird I had ever seen, with bright yellow feathers on the top of his head and little aqua blue feathers mixed with sea green covering his body.

I would run home as soon as school ended and take him out of his cage. He would perch himself on my shoulder, and we would share a cherry red popsicle as an afternoon snack. Sometimes I’d turn on the radio and he would start bopping his head up and down to the beat.

At some point in their conversation, my mom turned to me and told me that my Aunt Gloria had died. I had already figured this out from listening to their conversation.
“Oh,” was my only response.

My father looked over at my mom with a surprised expression.

“She’s too young, Gene. She doesn’t understand what death is,” my mother said.

I did understand what was going on. I knew what death was, at least I thought I did. Someone is no longer on the earth, taken away sometimes in painful ways. A lot of people are sad. Was I supposed to be sad? I felt guilty for not being sad. I wasn’t very close to my Aunt Gloria. The most I can remember her ever saying to me was “Take your feet off of my coffee table.” I didn’t want to be around my mom and dad anymore. I went to play with Punkin in the living room.


* * *
Several months later, I came home from a dentist appointment and ran into my room to play with Punkin. I then made the loudest scream I had ever made in my whole eight years of life, a shrill sound that penetrated through the walls of our home until it reached the ears of my horrified mother. She dropped everything and ran into my room.

Punkin was face down in the fish bowl. It was a fish I won at the carnival. The fish was fine, swimming at the bottom of the bowl. I thought it looked annoyed by the intrusion. My bird’s feet were wrapped around the rim of the bowl, it’s head inside, and eyes closed.

I sat on the ground, tears streaming from my eyes. “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!” I kept repeating.

I pleaded with my mom to do CPR on him. Afterall, she was a nurse. She looked at me helplessly, but refused to give him mouth-to-mouth. She said it was too late. He was dead.

I wouldn’t let my dad take Punkin’s body out for a garden burial. We stuck it in a shoe box, placed on top of my desk, just in case we were wrong. Maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe I’d wake up the next morning and take a look inside the shoebox. He’d wake up from his sleep and perch himself on my shoulder as he usually did. This never happened.

By the second day, the smell of bird carcass started to stink up my room. So my father took him outside. I followed behind. And we buried him in the backyard. My father said that his body would fertilize the plants. I was glad that his remains would benefit the plants just as his life had benefited my own. Now no one could say I didn’t understand death.

Affinity for the Wolf

My friend Valleah would sit in the grass by the shade, and wait for me to get out of class. She had classes of her own, but chose not to go to them. Instead, she would do her own independent studies. One day, I found her reading a book called “Totem Animals.” We searched through the book together, learning about the different animals and what significance they held in our lives. Valleah had an affinity for crows. I felt most deeply connected to wolves and dogs. The book said they were loyal and wise. They enjoyed the community of a pack, while having enough time to themselves.

Wolf (or canine) energy seemed to be the most dominant totem force in my life. I grew up with dogs as pets since I was three. My dog Rico, who was half husky, resembled a wolf. To this day, he is one of the most loyal beings I have ever met. One time, while crossing the street, a Toyota Corolla drove up too close to us before stopping. This alarmed Rico, and he pushed me out of harm’s way, leaving himself in potential danger. Luckily, the Corolla did stop, with several inches between him and the car’s front bumper.

In another incident, my friend Gina invited Rico and me to a canine birthday celebration she threw for her terrier Quentin. She also had a full bar. The humans drank alcohol and chatted while the animals chased each other around the house and backyard. I had a little too much to drink and forgot how to walk. Rico sensed that something was wrong. His big, brown eyes looked over at me with concern, and his wet, black nose twitched as if trouble were in the air. He left his group of canine friends and watched over me as I rested on Gina’s couch. When I got up to stumble to the bathroom, he followed me. And when I closed the bathroom door behind me, leaving him on the other side of it, he whimpered and scratched at the immoveable barrier blocking his path. I could hear Gina talking to him on the other side.

“Don’t worry,” she told him. “Your momma will be outta there soon.” I imagined her petting his head as she said this.

He whimpered something back to her in return.

Eventually, I emerged from the bathroom, and staggered back over to the couch. Rico didn’t leave my side until I sobered up.

But the most auspicious experience I had with wolf energy occurred when I first got involved with a Yogic Buddhist community. I was taking a bus to the yoga center to meet up with the rest of the group. From the center, many of us would carpool to the meditation retreat in Jacumba, California. I started to lose my nerve. It was my first spiritual retreat, and I began to have my doubts. What was I doing? Was I on the right path? Maybe I should get off the bus. I asked the universe to give me a sign that I was heading in the right direction. Otherwise, I was going to pull the dinger and get off at the next stop. The bus turned a corner, and on the side of a building, was an enormous mural of a gray wolf. His stance was powerful and still, his features depicted him as wise, like a sage. I became hypnotized by his deep, penetrating eyes. My hand released the dinger and I remained in my seat.

Eight years later, I’m still a part of that Yogic Buddhist community…