When I was twenty-five my grandmother - who was born in 1896 - died. She lived her final year in a fog. She had conversations with long-dead sisters and friends. She was not sure who we were. Her beautiful naturally curly hair suddenly went straight and limp.
I was living in Chicago the last year of Grandma’s life, studying at the American Conservatory of Music, and saw her only on holidays. When she died, it took me several days to get home. I missed her funeral - arriving in time to help sort through her house with my aunts and cousins.
This was not a small task. Grandma had a free-standing garage in her back yard that was so packed full of old stuff we had to take the door off the hinges to get inside. As we dug our way into the jam-packed space we discovered treasures. There were jewels (because my grandfather had been a jeweler). There were tools no one could identify - save for the ones Grandma had labeled. “This is a needle for making brooms,” read one tag. Near the back of the garage, we discovered photographic negatives - heavy glass rectangles - of dead ancestors laid out in their coffins in the snow (presumably in Sweden).
During Grandma’s final year, I thought of her with sadness - her reduced state defining her in my mind. When she died, my mental image reverted nearly instantly to her healthy, vibrant state. I once again thought of her as the woman who had invited me over for dinner every Friday night so that we could watch The Rockford Files together. The woman who walked miles everyday helping other seniors to vote or do their taxes.
I was amazed by this change in my view, and thought, maybe this is the tiny bit of healing that death offers in compensation for our grief: the wiping away of the memory of our loved one’s suffering.
When my little cat Bela died, I waited for the miracle, but it didn’t come.
Several people suggested that I look at old photos of her - photos from the time when she was healthy. I followed that advice this week, and gradually I began to feel some peace after her loss. I no longer thought of her as the cat who had quit grooming, had worn away chunks of her own fur scratching, who had to be carried from the sofa to my bed at night.
Now when I think of Bela, I think of her watching the goats out the window on the farm. I think of how she adored her heated cat bed (which she would no longer climb into at the end). I think of her playing duets with me on the piano. (Marian McPartland used to love improvising along with her cats).
Last week I had wanted to write about Corgis, but I lacked the merriment of soul to do it. This week, I am closer to my usual mirthful state.
Many eons ago, when the number of humans living on our planet was small, Corgis resided solely in the realm of the Fair Folk. Three thousand years ago, there was a war between the Tywyth Teg and the Gwyllion - two fairy tribes. The war resulted in the death of two Tywyth Teg. Two Welsh children happened upon the funeral of the fallen warriors, and the fairies - because the children were respectful of the rites they observed - gave them the noble steeds of the two dead. These creatures were Corgis. This is how they came to the human realm.
Corgis were the beings who drew the chariots of the fairies, and were themselves trusted warriors. The fairies thought the Corgis might be a great help to the children in herding their cows.
To this day, many Corgis have a darker patch around their shoulders which is the mark left by the fairy saddles. Corgis’ tendency to get nippy is explained by the fact that the fairies rarely give gifts without strings attached. It is said that if you put a small bit of iron or steel in the collar of your Corgi, that will keep him from nipping you, as fairies are averse to those metals.
When the Corgis arrived in Wales 3,000 years ago, they made themselves indispensable to their new human friends. They ran ahead of the herds they were responsible for, driving off predators or invaders. They acted as drovers when their herds needed to be moved, they exterminated vermin and were beloved family companions.
The Cardigan Corgis were the original strain. Here are two Cardigans:
The Pembroke Corgis were the result of the Viking invasion a thousand years ago. The Vikings brought a Spitz type dog on their ships who interbred with the Cardigans. Here are two Pembrokes:
The differences are: Pembrokes (which are the type Queen Elizabeth has) are tail-less. Pembrokes are bred to easier terrain. The Pembrokes’ ears are smaller - in fact they are smaller dogs altogether, and come in a more limited range of colors. Both dogs are extremely intelligent (as you would expect, having come from the Fair Folk) but the Pembrokes are more outgoing.
Corgis came to America in June of 1932, but they didn’t become popular until the 1960s.
I have to post another photo of my cousin Jan’s corgi:
What a nut he is! I can’t get enough of these photos! This dog looks demented with happiness! Jan says Teddy has gotten into the goat pens twice already. No doubt his roots as a herder are calling to him. I wonder, does he have a genetic memory of his fairy roots? Does he dream of pulling fairy chariots? I hope so.