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The gift of connection is fraught with the grief of separation.
Simply put, we
outlive our dogs, and it’s just not fair.
When I met my dog
for the first time and knew she would become my companion, there was an element
of loss in the joyful mix; I did not feel it, could not have identified it at
the time. But there was a wiggly layer of sadness inside our first meeting, and
that niggling thread would follow us through the five years I had her.
The grief would grow
more insistent the day the vet told me my girl had Canine Degenerative
Myelopathy, a condition which would cause some pain and possible paralysis in
her hindquarters.
The sting of losing
her this way, in slow dribbles, tracked us like a cold shadow. Our walks became
shorter. She accepted my help getting into the car, out of the car, up the
steps, into the apartment.
Many things were the
same, but even the familiar rituals felt short-lived, more precious.
Brief walks along
the lakeshore, lurching along like a couple of mellowed oldsters, just sniffing
the breeze and hoping for polished beach glass along the way.
Lots of treats. More
than necessary.
Head pats, ear scratches,
belly rubs. Little luxuries to ease the pain.
Small affirmations
whispered into a world of
gifts and goodbyes,
homecomings and
heartaches,
rescuing and relinquishing,
mending and
mourning.
I lost her in
February.
In March, the world
shut down.
The emptiness in my
apartment became a thundering silence; a constant reminder of
she’s-not-here-anymore.
The sequester was deeply
solitary for me.
It’s been good to
return to the office. The place is far from “normal days”, but still there are
ripples of laughter. There is kindness. A sense of endurance, of pulling
together.
It’s been a strange journey this year. I’m doubly sorry I’ve had to traverse it without my sweet girl, Reina.
“Reina”