a three dog night

I love memoirs. I especially love sad memoirs. Some of my favorite memoirs are Isabel Allende's Paula, in which she writes about the death of her adult daughter to a sudden illness; Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, in which she write's about her husband's death from a heart attack; and Abigail Thomas' Three Dog Life, about her life after an accident that left her husband of twelve years forever altered. I know, real uppers. I promise you, though, that there is something beautiful about reading these accounts of human fortitude and weakness, frailty and remarkable ability to endure, in the face of life's moments of deepest pain. If writing is an exercise in catharsis, then reading these cathartic accounts must provide some of the same benefits of cleansing and healing to the reader.

Thomas takes the name of her book from the expression, "a three dog night," which originated in Australia. During the cold winter nights, when the temperature dipped, the Australian Aborigines would cuddle up to their dogs to keep warm. The colder the night, the more dogs they would need to keep warm, and thus, a very cold night was referred to as "a three dog night."

I believe I'm going through at least a two dog moment in my life, and I am lucky that I happen to live with the world's most soulful and understanding dog heart. On Saturday morning I woke up reluctantly, hurting. Lola, who is usually too indpendent to snuggle up in bed with us, came over to say good morning, hopped on the bed, and lay down beside me. It was as if she was saying, "Okay, just this once I'm going to let you spoon me so that you'll feel better." It didn't last long, but it was exactly what I needed. She, not for the first time, got me out of bed that morning.

Kevin and I have often wondered what we ever did to get through the really rough times before we brought a dog into our home. We didn't know what we were missing. It's a type of comfort that only furry, four-legged souls can provide. Oh, Lola. I am so grateful.