"How are you, today?"

There comes a time when you have to quit answering the
question: “How are you?” with: “I just lost my dog, he died of cancer, too
young.” There comes a time that people
will look at you and say, “Wasn’t that 3 weeks ago, a month ago, a year?” There also comes a time when, even though all
I want to do is talk about the devastation I feel, I don’t want to continue to
make people feel badly for me. Many
people understand my loss, the loss of my special dog, the surrogate for the
child I never had. Many people get it,
that, yes, it is a dog, not a child, but, to me, it is all mixed up in my heart. I know there has got to be a time frame for
grief. Maybe it’s a time frame for “public”
grief. Again, the happy ending. Do people really want the real answer to that
question: “How are you, today?” It never seems so. Most of the time, you get or give the answer:
“Fine, and you;” expecting the same quick retort of “Fine, thanks.” But as friends and colleagues, family and acquaintances,
shouldn’t we want the long version, the truth? I recently read an article about good marriage
relationships. The premise of the
article was that, with your partner, you should give all the little details of
your day, bring your mate into your day, give it and receive it. That is how a relationship maintains itself. Share your thoughts about this or that you
saw; the good luck of getting all the lights on your way home; how you felt
when someone said something to you earlier, etc. That being a partner means knowing what your
real day was actually like. Maybe that
is where my confusion about the question in a greeting comes from: “How are
you?” No one out there really wants to
know. But we all want that partner in
our lives, someone who does want the full version of how I am. So even when it is time to put on your brave
face to the world, you will be able to take off your mask with them. This partner can be a friend, a parent, a
spouse…..a dog. Thus my dilemma. I lost my dog, three weeks ago (my friend, my
child, my confidant, my Partner.) I do
have people in my life; I count my blessings every day, for my husband, my
sisters, and my friends. I am
lucky. But when I ask myself, how am I,
I don’t feel quite ready to answer, “Fine, and you?” Just yet.

Grief Counselors come in all Species

In the haze of my life without Partner, I find myself renewing my relationship with Benna. Benna is my other Aussie, she is three, a blue merle, very white and she is a looker. When
I got Benna, I had a really hard time dividing my attention between two active,
intelligent dogs. Ask everyone, especially Betsy, my training buddy. She had to
listen to my concerns on a daily basis, how I worrying about neglecting one for
the other. I don't know how parents of multiple children do it. It is so easy
to be partial, so difficult to be fair. Partner was my special dog, true to his
name. Benna was my little girl, independent and spirited. Where Partner was my
shadow, Benna was busy. When Partner was growing up and developing, he would go
to work with me every day. Robert was working then and no good dog parent would
leave an active puppy alone for 9 hours a day, so off he would go with me.
Crates, toys, food would be packed every day, into the car. When Benna was
little and a new arrival, Robert was retired. As I loaded up the puppy and
packed the car, it seemed silly, waving good-bye to someone who was willing to
be home with the puppy. In hind sight, I have learned what I lost in this trade
off. True, Benna didn't have to spend long days at the clinic, in a crate, broken
up by bonding, valuable, training "Mom time." Instead she got to run
free at home, unsupervised by a retired man with his own agenda. Of course that
is all behind us now. Benna has developed into a good dog. So far she has
earned an alphabet soup of titles behind her name, CGC, CD, NA, NAJ, OA, OAJ,
AX, AXJ, NF, and is well on her way to some more letters to be added to the mix. She is a
good girl, but she was never directly by my side, Partner was there. Thus the
guilt. I always felt guilty about that. Partner would always be at my feet,
following me around the house, Benna maybe would be there. She was too busy to
keep too close of a tab on me. But now that the spot at my feet is available, I
find Benna there. She is there right now. She isn't off finding things to do,
she is there, sleeping, waiting for me to move, to touch her. Partner has only
been gone for not quite two weeks. I have been leaning on Benna in his absence
and I feel guilty about that too. I feel badly that it isn't Partner. I felt
guilty I hadn't been able to share my floor space equally before. I now feel guilty for
letting Benna fill the emptiness in my day.
Over the years, I have had to be a grief counselor for clients who have lost pets. So often the thing I heard the most was how they would never have another dog. It was too painful. I would
always be reminded about a poem I had read, years before. It was written by a
dieing dog as his last will. The dog said he wanted to leave his ball to the
next dog that he hoped would some day come into his owner's life. The dog felt
it would be a tribute to their love that they had shared in this life, that the man
couldn't live without the love of a dog in his life. That their love had been
so necessary and fulfilling that life without that kind of love wouldn't be
worth it. So, what I need to do now is believe that Partner felt that way. That
he left that spot of floor, next to me, to Benna. That he knew I couldn't live
a good life without "my dog" vigilant by my side. So, writing this is
helping me get past my guilt.
(Partner's last will: To Benna, I leave the spot on the floor next to Mary Ann's feet. I leave it vacant so you have room to move there. Keep Mary Ann busy, figuring out how to train you. She enjoys teaching, be a good student. Give her your backside to rub and scratch, give your face to kiss and your eyes to gaze into. Be right there, she will always reach down to feel
for your presence. Be there in my spot, now your spot. That is a precious location;
I lived there for a short time, now it is yours to live there for a long time.
Take care of it and of her, Benna, I leave it all to you. )
Thank you, Partner, for reminding me of that poem I read so long ago. Thank you for being my grief counselor as I work my way through to the memories that make smile instead of cry. And thank you for putting Benna right here by my side for me. I hope to keep her busy now.

An Empty Collar

I now have an empty collar, sitting on my desk. It use to hold my laughing boy dog. Now it sits, at the base of my desk lamp, empty. What do you do with such mementos? They are priceless, with the DNA that surely is attached, microscopically to the leather. But instead of hugs and kisses, romps in the yard, rides in the car and days at the dog shows, it will sit there, on my desk and simply collect dust. I can't let that happen, but its usefulness is no longer required. My boy is gone. He hung on as long as he could, but we lost the battle yesterday. I have an assortment of these collars in my house. They have moved from beloved necks, to spots on my desk, then to memory boxes on the shelf. I can not let them go. I can't imagine the day that this collar will go into a memory box. I want the neck back. I want to slip it over those Aussie ears and hear the jingle of the tag as it bounces along beside me. I am not ready to let it sit: still, in its new spot. My desk is a good spot,though, I think. That collar was always within arms reach, lifting if I looked its way, moving if I moved along. Now it will be right here. Watching over me, making me remember, as if I needed it to do that. I will miss having that collar along for the ride. I can hardly stand it, how I feel the ache in my fingers, with no hair to get tangled into. My eyes can now rest on that motionless tag as it hangs from the lamp. Right there, a breath away from me now. A loved breath gone. Help me process the loss. Help me remember the love. Rest peacefully and please, wait for me, I have the collar which said, on its tag, that you were mine.