As you may have
surmised by now, I’m not good at grief. As a general rule, I’m not really all
that comfortable with emotions and feelings. I don’t like them. Yours, mine,
ours – it matters not. All that feeling makes me itchy. In addition, it’s
important to note that I am addicted to eyelash extensions. They are the
miracle that lazy, clumsy, slobs have been waiting for. No longer do I stab
myself in the eye on the daily trying to put mascara on my four tragic
eyelashes in an attempt to look less pig-eyed and tired. With eyelash
extensions, I can leap out of bed and after the “brush and flush” ritual, I
comb out my lash extensions and boom! My eyes and I look ready for whatever the
day throws at us. It’s an expensive and time-consuming addiction as the
extensions do require maintenance – so it is important to treat them carefully.
When I’m all in my feelings – especially the sad ones – I start to leak out of
my eye holes. I believe this is called crying. Not a fan for a whole host of
reasons, including that crying ruins your lashes. So there’s that.
Mental health
professionals have spent the better part of the last decade trying to get me to
feel my feelings. It’s important to note that I fired one of them for her
aggressive tactics (see also: getting in touch with five year old me) and the
other one is on real thin ice after laughing
at me during a recent session. And yes, okay – I’ve been known to have some
feels in the confines of my therapist’s office, where I extract my revenge by
using more Kleenexes than I need to so that I feel like I’m getting something
for my money. My apologies to the environment.
The problem is,
the older you get, the harder it is to avoid your feels because life is
stupidly hard. Should you be one of the lucky ones who manages to squeak
through your 20’s with nothing more than some unpleasant student loan debt and
maybe a fender bender on your pain resume . . . let me tell you. You’re in for
a real treat when you grow up. Because life will
decide to kick you in the proverbial gonads at some point – and if you’re
unprepared for it like most of us are, you won’t be wearing a [again,
proverbial] cup and it is going to hurt. A lot.
Back in a
different chapter of my life, I was shacked up with Mr. Wrong. Fans of the frog
blog will remember that Mr. Wrong took my money and my lawn mower and then
kicked me to the curb. Thank God. (Except I’m still harboring some resentment
about the lawn mower.) There was some good that came out of that terrible
relationship though . . . and we named it The Dude. After buying my first house
(and letting that parasite Mr. Wrong move in with me), Mr. Wrong decided that
the only thing that would make our lives complete would be a pet – and so we
decided to get a dog.
We visited the
animal humane society week after week, looking for that perfect pet to bring
into our home. About a month into our search, we spotted a beautiful fluffy dog
with big sad brown eyes. Fast forward and we decided to bring The Dude home
with us. I should have known when he jumped out of the window of my moving car –
on the way home from the humane society! - That we’d be in for some adventures
together.
I need to
confess that I was not “team dog” at the time. I worried that a dog would be
too much work for us. He would depend on us for things like toilet, food, love,
attention – and frankly, a dog is a lot like a really furry baby that never
gets potty-trained. Were we really ready for something like that? Mr. Wrong
declared that we were and furthermore, took a solemn oath that he would take full responsibility for
taking care of our dog.
Three days into
dog ownership, I’m pretty smitten with The Dude. I mean, sure – he peed on the bedroom carpet, ate one
of my shoes, and shed tumbleweeds of fur like it was a paying gig – but he was
such a sweetheart. Imagine my surprise upon returning home from work on the
third day of dog ownership to see Mr. Wrong piling the carsick prone Dude into
his car. I was curious about their destination when Mr. Wrong looked me in the
eyes and said, “I’m returning him. Dogs are too much work.”
Reader, I’d love
to tell you that I dumped that guy’s sorry ass right then and there. Sadly, I
did not and three more years passed before we parted ways. So, while not the
sharpest knife in the drawer, I still knew that you don’t return a dog like an
ill-fitting pair of shoes – and I put a stop to it. Mr. Wrong declared that by
forbidding him to return the dog, I was in fact signing up for full pet
responsibility. And so I did.
The Dude and I
had many adventures together, including a small crime spree when The Dude
allegedly bit our postal worker. Crimes against postal workers are taken very
seriously in the city of Minneapolis, and the cops and animal control responded
immediately. The Dude and I had a hearing – which we lost – and he was declared
a potentially dangerous animal in the city of Minneapolis, a label that meant
he had his own canine parole officer. He wasn’t supposed to go outside without
a muzzle and he was supposed to be confined to a 3 foot leash. We were also
forced to rent a post office box because they would no longer deliver mail to
my door.
My inability to
follow instructions, combined with my righteous indignation at having my pet
declared a danger to society, was a recipe for disaster. There may have been an
incident at Minneapolis Animal Control where I was asked to lower my voice and
when I failed to comply, I may have been cuffed and stuffed into the back of a
police car until I felt the fear of God. (That may have taken less than a
block, in case you’re curious.)
When Mr. Wrong
left three years later – taking most of my money, my dignity, and my lawn mower
with him – I fell into a deep depression. Had it not been for The Dude, I would
have stayed in bed and avoided facing the world. But he needed me. He needed to
be fed; walked, and loved. And he loved me back. This damn dog that I never
even wanted, who nearly got me arrested, who peed on my carpet, snuck into my
basement to poop, and who probably bit the mailman stole my heart. He is the
reason I kept going, even when I didn’t want to.
You never
really see your dog getting old in front of your eyes, and I held on to this
belief that The Dude would live forever because I needed him to. He was there
for me when I got dumped. He evaluated any number of potential frogs before we
decided on Randy – whom he may have attacked when he first met him but again,
that’s an unproven allegation. He was there when I sold my first house, the
little house in the hood. He saw me through career changes, life changes, and
he was absolutely thrilled to be part of our happily ever after.
18 months ago,
our vet told me that The Dude had cancer. There were some treatment options,
but she wanted me to know that at 13 years old, treatment probably wasn’t the
best option, and we began the process of hospice, not knowing how much time we
had left with our baby. And I’ll admit it. I hung on longer than I should have because
I couldn’t bear to say goodbye. He was ready to go but I wasn’t ready to lose
him.
12 months ago,
we said goodbye to a dog who was more than a possible felon and more than a
good boy. He was the BEST BOY and he was the reason I kept on keeping on even
when I didn’t want to. No one will ever love you like your dog does – and no
one will ever break your heart like your dog does either. Heartbroken, devastated,
grieving, and so very sad – but this time, I didn’t have woman’s best friend to
see me through it, and depression, anxiety, and grief all packed their suitcases
and settled in for a long stay.
I tried to
avoid feeling my feels, but it was impossible. I’d get into the car and see
Dude’s dirty paw prints on the back seat. I’d put on a pair of black pants and
his white fur would be clinging to the cuffs. I’d come home from work to a
quiet and empty house. I went through the motions but I wasn’t really present
in my own life.
We live in a
world that is full of tragedy, pain, and grief. I think sometimes, we turn
sadness into a competition – like, “Well, sure you lost your dog and that’s sad
but Sarah lost her MOTHER. That’s a terrible tragedy.” A lot of people don’t
understand grieving for your pet, and some of the well-intentioned folks I ran
into said things like, “Well – you can always get another dog!” as if that
would cheer me up. Did I tell Sarah she could get another mother? No, I did not
because that would be insensitive and stupid (and also incorrect).
The fact of the
matter is this. Everyone goes through hard times. It’s not our job to evaluate
the depth, breadth, scope and impact of their hard times. We’re not project managing their pain. We also don’t
always know their history. I’d like to think I held my shit together pretty
well during a whole bunch of hard times that we don’t need to unpack here – but
losing The Dude was the straw that broke this camel’s back, and I felt all the
years of pent-up grief and sadness all at once.
Tough times are
inevitable. You will have things that suck happen in your life and so will I.
So if we know that we’re all going to go through some shit at some point or
another, why not stop comparing our pain and competing for the award of saddest
sack on earth and instead, find ways to love and support one another? Imagine
what that might be like . . . and if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for
The Dude.
© 2019, Princess D
