Grief is so weird. I don't really understand it. Yesterday, very very late into the evening, Ed and I talked on the phone. He called me and I called him at exactly the same moment. A good thing, too, because I was very upset. Something along the lines of. "Henry had done everything for me, every last thing, with a passion and wisdom that was strong and beautiful. And I had let him go." Sobbing, I went around these words yet again with Ed. Ed, the patient one. Determined now to make me understand, reminding me once more about the risks Henry posed, not only in his biting, but in his forceful attack on people with his powerful body. "Listen, you are so risk averse, but I'm not." -- this from Ed. "I take chances. I calculate the risk and often land on the side of "it's worth it" where you would never ever choose that route. And despite that, I am telling you that to me, the risk here was too great and should not have been taken. I know you worry about your tendency to make quick decisions. I've watched you over the months be terrified that he would hurt someone, first in the apartment building then out on the streets. Let me say again that weighing all the risks for a while now, I truly believe what you did was exactly what had to be done. In fact, I think you waited too long. You took many chances with that."
It's true. It's not that I was in denial. I saw his ferocious attacks on people who came too close. I just believed, or simply cradled the hope that his bark was worse than his bite. That this gentle dog that loved so deeply would never really want to hurt anyone. But I worried. In all my long walks, my visits to dog parks, in picking up my guy at daycare, I never saw any dog lunge so determinedly at people. Not one. Just Henry. And when he started to make contact with the person of his disaffection, this is when I knew I was in trouble. That's when I started frantically to look for a house to rent. Even if it meant another move in the summer.
So after this soothing talk with Ed, I felt relief. For a while anyway. Sadey and I go upstairs. She sleeps in his bed, but then she'd taken over that one when he was still here. He let it go. If this is what it took, he would acquiesce. Looking at her with his serious eyes, making that mental calculation. This is what is required now. Fine..
Morning. I wake up. No Sadey. Where is she? I go downstairs and smile my sad smile. I think she's missing Henry. In the last weeks he often rested and slept in the hallway by the door. His ultimate protective stance. Guarding, making sure. This is where his scent is strongest. This is where she spent half her night.
We go outside. It is so windy! The weather this weekend is going to be such a mess and it's starting now. Henry was tense when it was a very windy walk. Sadey had to be more used to it, no? I mean, isn't Houston windy?
Breakfast. Hers first. I'm trying to teach her things that Henry had long mastered. A sit-stay for him was easy. Not for her. She is so restless that she cannot hold anything for long. That's okay, sweet girl. You've been through so many changes! The "rule of threes" tells us that a rescue dog needs three days to decompress when she arrives, three weeks to learn her routine, and three months to fully settle and build trust.
I sit down to my breakfast. I feel the need to keep that candle by me, to bring out Henry's mug which captures so well that look in his eyes.
All the photos have it too. I can't look at any of this without feeling terribly sad. So why do it? It's not going to help him any. And contrary to what I speculated with the kids, I dont really think he's looking down on me and watching. I've always thought that death fuels too much sadness. When I die, I would like my kids, grandkids, Ed, friends, to be sad for exactly one day. Light your candles then, sing a song or two and then please, move on! Return to your laughter, your friends. Think of me with a chuckle not with a tear. So why am I bringing out Henry's cup? Why do I keep his sweatshirt as my most special clothing item? Snowdrop went to the fridge yesterday and took down the magnet of his face and put it aside. Is that okay, gaga? It makes me too sad to see it. It's more than okay! That's exactly the way to go. He does not demand sadness. Grief makes no sense here -- he was a great dog who opened us to such splendid love, the love of this soulful animal and of ours for him. Let's keep that with us, not the sadness that came with losing him.
And yet, I light the candle and eat breakfast drinking from his mug because in my mind it underscores the power of his greatness. And I realize that's just stupid. It underscores nothing of the sort, it just makes me weep. Nonetheless, here I am, doing exactly that which makes no sense at all.
I drop Sadey off at daycare. One of the staff members -- a great fan of Henry's, and she wasn't the only one -- comes up to me. Listen, I don't want to make you sad or anything, but you know, we've been taking pictures of Henry all along (such a unique and special pup!) and I'd like to put together all of them for you this weekend. Would that be okay?
Of course I would love them! But the sadness does now come right back, fiercely. Should I do a photo book myself of his life? But why? For me? Doing it would be extremely painful. Is it that I want to leave something tangible of him? That's so silly. Who, except for his small circle of friends would ever even look at it? Who would be made happy by it? Maybe instead I should imagine that his spirit remains. The tangible markers are nothing. Just items that will eventually make it to a landfill.
And yet, right now stuff matters. I go grocery shopping. Stocking up for the weekend. Will we lose power? Will there really be a storm dumping snow and ice and isolating us in a cold world of late winter here? Maybe. So I stock up. And this too is ridiculously sad. 99% of the stuff I buy in a grocery store has nothing to do with Henry. But I see him in these foods anyway. Asparagus? I usually make it with a salmon fillet. How he loved it when I baked salmon! Yogurt? That's for breakfast. A meal of peace, where he curled up on the couch and waited for me to be done. Wheat crackers -- he loved it when I shared. And the worst -- the dog treats aisle. I see the soft heart-shaped banana-bacon treats. I made sure to give him those as he was falling asleep next to me in his final moments. Cheek to cheek, his face touching mine. Until he could eat no more.
I take some food to Ed and bring the rest home. I'm thinking -- I'm not doing too well in the grieving department. Why? I'm a great blocker! I dont meander into the past. Always move forward. Rarely look back. And here I am with these images of Henry refusing to let up.
Today is Snowdrop only day. I stop over at her house first -- I've not seen her mom for ages. Of course, I talk about Henry. Or rather about my inability to shed this profound feeling of loss. So not like me! She tells me -- listen, pet grief is something altogether different. I cried for three days when Goldie (her cat) died. And you know my friend -- her husband went to counseling to deal with the loss of his cat! Six months of grieving! I have to smile at that!
Snowdrop is happy -- the family is going to a fish fry tonight. She asks me now -- gaga, will you be getting another dog? Only if the perfect small friendly older nonreactive easy pup shows up on my doorstep.
We pick up Sadey. Ah, Sadey! She is finally getting my full attention. As the second child, she always had to share. Henry had to be mollified. It was assumed that she would fit in. And she did fit in. She wanted rather desperately to be part of our pack right away. She has that drive to make it happen! And because she managed to jump faster onto the couch next to me, she got first choice there. And still, my worries were with Henry. Now, she is the girl sitting in the prime spot. Both eyes, fully on her
Tomorrow? Another hard first -- taking Sadey to the dog park. How Henry loved it there! Pictures of them running together are still some of my favorites. Pure exuberance. Tomorrow, she ventures out alone. May she love it anyway. May she fly with others. May she be as happy as he was there.
(did I tell you that Sadey loves pillows and will arrange them perfectly to suit her needs?)
with so much love...
