The Death of Charlie and Embracing Gentleness in the Midst of Change
A few weeks ago, our family made the difficult decision to euthanize our elderly doggo, Charlie.
We pulled the kids out of school and made sure her final day included her favorite snacks, infinite belly rubs, a wonderful walk around the neighborhood, and our sharing of memories, along with many, many tears.
Nicknames include: Chuck, Chuckles, Chuckoslovakia, Charles, and I even once called her Mrs. Chuckington when nobody was around. It didn't fit her at all.
We wanted to make sure her death – the first major death our young kids have experienced – wasn’t bypassed or brushed under the rug. We wanted to make sure it was as good and beautiful a death as we could make it. And as the late afternoon came, we gathered in a circle and said goodbye to Charlie before Heather took her for her final car ride.
Sometimes I have a tendency to get a bit romantic when I talk about change.
But that evening, the details and realness of this particular change unsettled me – and all my romanticism went out the window.
As I gave our other dog, Pez, his dinner, I noticed the empty spot where Charlie used to lay as she happily waited for food. I walked into our bedroom and my attention lingered on Charlie’s vacant bed. In the middle of the night, I heard Pez rustling around more than normal and wondered how he was processing this.
And in the weeks since, it’s these little details that have stayed with me – the strange pangs of sadness that accompany the now-visible patch of carpet underneath where her bed used to be, the now-quicker bedtime routine, and even the lack of treacherous midnight farts coming from her direction.
The thing about euthanizing an older dog is that on one hand, we choose the change — the date, the time, the place. But on the other, time has absolutely made the choice, regardless of our desires.
And in this, I’m reminded of a fundamental truth:
Change is inherently disorienting — it shakes up what we’ve become comfortable with and offers us a new invitation, wanted or not.
Even the most beautiful of changes asks something of us. It asks us to enter a kind of resettling period in which we have to acclimate to a new normal, a new set of conditions, a new way of life.
Richard Rohr talks about this as the “universal wisdom pattern” of Order → Disorder → Reorder. Change shakes up our understanding of Order, brings us into a period of Disorder, and eventually we're invited into Reorder.
Charlie’s death was a shock to our family system and we’re still deciphering what our family life looks like without her – what Reorder might be for us.
All of this evokes in me a desire for gentleness: for myself, for my kiddos, for Heather, for Pez. For my memory of Charlie.
When change happens, gentleness is what helps us move through these uncomfortable stages – it’s an open-handed (as opposed to fists-clenched) way of saying “this is real and I am here.” No bypassing or avoidance; just living in the moment, however brutal it may be, and navigating with the skillfulness available.
I’m not sure how to end this, honestly.
So, I suppose I’ll end with an invitation as I often do:
This week, I invite you to practice gentleness in the midst of change – whatever change you’re inevitably experiencing right now.
Practice offering gentleness toward yourself and your people. And even try offering empathetic gentleness toward the force bringing the change – whether it’s another person, an institution or system, or something as large as Time itself.
Notice what comes up for you and, if you have a story or response to this arise, please email me at hello@andrewglang.com and let me know – I love reading and responding to (nearly) every message I get.
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