Dear You —

I am writing to you from a café in Glasgow not far from the veterinary hospital where Henrietta is undergoing a laparoscopic spay. I am writing to express the surprising sadness I am feeling.

She’s almost six years old now. I have postponed and postponed this surgery—until now. They say it’s good to get this done as it prevents certain cancers. But I always felt it was invasive. Some weird rationalisation that it wasn’t my place to make this call.

Yet, it was never the plan for her to breed, though having a houseful of puppy Henris would be so fun though impossibly difficult! On a practical and worldly level, I never seriously considered breeding her. I once thought about playing matchmaker with a very handsome boy, Cooper, from a nearby seaside town, but I never pursued that.

I know there are so many dogs that need adopting from shelters. Intellectually, then, it never seemed right to breed. Interestingly, this argument is one of the many I have used to convince myself that I did not need to have children. There are so many children needing adopting.

I’ve had a few conversations with fellow dog people who pause and admire Henri, and say I should consider breeding her. The reason is that she’s such a good example of her breed, it would be important to pass on her genes, they say. Similarly, my mum used to say (when I was still at an age where pregnancy was possible) that I should/must have children as I would make beautiful babies. That I have good genes. Maybe all mothers say this.

It feels like there is a loss here. But how can we lose something in the future that we never had in the past? We grieve losing life in the future. But we don’t grieve the life we didn’t have before the time of our birth.

The vet has just called and Henri’s operation has been successful. There really was no significant risk with this surgery but the vet is pleased. I’m picking her up in two hours.

Friends, there will be no more Henris in the world, after this Henri. No beautiful Henri genes passed on to puppy offspring. No genetic memory of her.

This is it for her. One Henri. Once in a lifetime.

When Henri dies (years in the future) there will be no sign that she ever existed. When I die there will be no sign that I ever existed. Maybe some anecdotes and memories will linger for as long as there are others that will remember us and speak of us. Maybe some digital photos will linger online for as long as those platforms exist and for as long as friends remember to visit those platforms.

These thoughts fill me with such deep sadness. I am inconsolable.

I told a friend that now I understand why people want children, and why parents want grandchildren. Is it about leaving a legacy? Is it about leaving something behind to be remembered by? Do we wish to beat death in this way? Are there other more positive and generative reasons for wanting to leave a legacy?

What is going on here?

Scholars have investigated what is at stake when it comes to our desire to leave a legacy. Some say it’s to manage our terror in the face of personal death, to help us overcome our death anxiety. Some say there’s a generative motivation—the concern to care for and guide the next generation. Some say there’s a narrative motivation—to compose a satisfactory and complete life story. Some talk about symbolic immortality. 1

I don’t know what it is yet for me. I don’t have any answers, yet. Just feeling my way around this.

I don’t think Henri has any of these concerns. She’s totally in the present moment. Pragmatic. And I try to stay with her, to be present.

But why am I suddenly overcome by grief at the loss of her genetic legacy, some sort of contribution to her breed, some form of future self, some sort of death transcendence?

I walked out of that vet clinic this morning as if my dog had died. But the only thing that has died is the possibility of her existing in some way after her death.

It feels important for her to live on in some way. To be remembered for her beauty, her gentle soul, her love of long walks by the sea and her tail-wagging encounters with others. The way she makes others happy.

The other day, we were in the garden centre and paused for an elderly lady to greet her. This lady patted Henri and spoke to her and bent down to receive Henri’s long-tongued kisses. When the lady stood upright again to address me, she said something about the magnificence of a dog’s love, how it makes everything better. She said this with such longing, I sensed some sadness in her. I said, ‘Are you okay?’ We looked at each other for the briefest and longest of moments. Another time she might have shared her sorrow, but all she said was: ‘Oh, I’ll get back to you on that one’. As she walked away, I rubbed her arm and let her go.

Why do I now care about Henri’s legacy when neither she nor I will be around to experience it?

I think there’s something in the idea of symbolic immortality. Hmm. I’ll keep thinking and writing about this, towards some understanding. It will take me a long time to make sense of this. I’m a slow thinker and a slow writer—thank you for your patience with my slow-coming letters to you.

So for now, just these ill-formed thoughts written in a café in Glasgow not far from the veterinary hospital where Henrietta is now recovering from surgery, slowly coming to after the anaesthetic. I can’t wait to see her again.

I’ll end here and leave you with a photo I took of us just before I admitted her for surgery. Here we are. Remember us. For as long as you do.

Lots of love,

Meet me in the comments section:

Can you help me make sense of my feelings? Did this resonate? I’d love to read your thoughts. Is leaving a legacy important for you? If so, what do you think are your reasons? Why do you want to be remembered? How do you want to be remembered?

Leave a comment