We are a family that loves our pets. My first memory is of the day my dad brought home a dog he’d found wandering by the railroad tracks. My Mom named her Tootsie, and her origins are a mystery to us. She was young, an American Eskimo (long before the breed was recognized by the AKC) and – incredibly – she was spayed. Back then, that was unheard of in our small rural community. She was cute as a button, had the heart of a lion and was wicked smart. Her loss, at the end my eighth grade year, was my first exposure to grief.
I have two dogs now, a 90 lb Lab mix and a 20 lb poodle terrier mix. The only thing they hate is an argument. The sound of raised voices will send them to the farthest corner of the house. Which is why I was stunned (although in retrospect) the morning of The Phone Call, informing me of the deaths of my mother and brother in a car accident the night before. The first sounding of the screams (or cries, or whatever those sounds were) brought them running up the stairs to sit at either side of me as I sat, wailing, on the floor, trying to understand what I’d just heard. It was the touch of those warm, trembling bodies that brought me back to sanity.
For the last seven years of her life, my Mom was accompanied nearly everywhere by Peanut, 10 pounds of attitude and enthusiasm. A Pomeranian and terrier mix, she is the most unlikely farm dog you can imagine, but it worked for her. Peanut was traveling with my Mom and brother on that night. How she survived the carnage, I can’t even guess. It took a series of small miracles to get her back. Mom always had her leashed when traveling -- the arthritis in her hands made it difficult to leash and unleash when letting Peanut out to do her business. Miracle number 1, she must have been wrenched out of her collar because she was found without it; her only injury was a small abrasion at her throat. Miracle number 2 was that she stayed with the car when most dogs run with fear. Miracle number 3 was the impulse on the part of one of the first responders to look under the driver’s seat just before the tow truck removed the car from the scene. And miracle number 4 was that he took her to his home when the "the book" says to turn them over animal control where we might never have heard that she survived.
When we got her back, my own two dogs were incredibly gentle with her. For the next three days, at least one of them was near her, offering quiet companionship. At night, in her sleep, she would make the most mournful little sounds I’ve ever heard, tearing at my already broken heart. Her grief, her little doggie grief, was – and is – as real as mine. She’s my brother’s dog now, and he tells me that she still, sometimes, has those dreams. It is grieving that she’s doing, and much as she loves my brother, I believe she will always miss my Mom.
Our pets are woven into the warp and weft of the tapestry of our lives, enhancing the joy and mitigating the sorrow.
I ponder this now as I prepare to take my little dog to the vet on Wednesday for surgery. I found a small lump in her shoulder last week, and a preliminary biopsy shows abnormal cells. It could be (almost) nothing – pre-cancerous. Or... not. Please let it be nothing. Little dogs have naturally longer life-spans than larger dogs, and I never imagined that it would be she that first caused me to face the fact of their mortality.
If there’s a point to all this, I guess it’s that grief and loss comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s personal, and individual, and it’s as much a part of life as breathing – and as uncontrollable. When the darkness comes, I can no more stop it than I can stop breathing. It’s less often now, but no less terrible. If there is one thing I’ve gained from all this pain, it is that I now try to take more time to appreciate all the blessings in my life. From the small things, like the perfect weather this morning as I walked with my dogs, to the big things, like the love and support of my son, siblings and extended family. All of those things are something to hold on to. Something real. A candle in the darkness.
I know my ramblings can’t compare with the eloquence of exmearden or the warmth of Dem in the heart of Texas, but I hope you’re encouraged to share your stories. I’m here to listen.