Aftermath

Last night we did all the things you do after you lose a pet. My husband put away her food dish then threw out the medications, a row of ineffective little soldiers lined up at attention on the counter. By the time I made it to the bedroom he had already removed her crate, which I wasn't ready for. It hit me so hard he actually brought it back. It's hard enough to see the empty bed; I wasn't ready for the huge empty space in our room.

Finding her collar and leash, hastily dropped in the back of my van after it was removed by the critical care clinic, was particularly bad. I gave the collar to my sobbing husband, who cried all the harder on seeing it. And later, when he silently handed me something in the darkened living room, I was once again hit by a crippling wave of tears. Half a soccer ball, meticulously torn to bits over the years, any minute piece of which just as worthy of fetching as the original. Her favorite toy. I slept with it under my pillow.

I lost a cat to diabetes about eight years ago, and I was heartbroken but it was nothing like this. Though I love all my pets dearly, I now have a deep understanding of the fundamental difference between dogs and cats. Cats tip-toe around the fringes of your existence, deigning on occassion to let you bestow affection upon them. Dogs weave themselves into the fabric of your everday life; make themselves indispensable to living it.

I am stunned by the ferocity of my grief. Crying so hard, like my very soul is howling. Not for my sweet, sentimental Grandpa or my beloved uncle, taken too young and too suddenly by cancer, was I this uncontrollably distraught.

The pain of the injustice - losing my baby, my youngest pet - has compounded the loss. My eldest cat has started his decline; of all our pets I fully expected to lose him first, but was fine with that because I have years to get used to the idea. My other dog, my sweet Sable, is several years older than Karma and already gray of muzzle. The first dog of our marriage, we always expected her to be the first dog we lost together. The obvious commonality to my acceptance of their fate is the inevitablity of mortality; we get old and we die, as do our pets. We mourn them, but we cannot with any semble of reason resent the passing of one who has lived their full allotment of years in joy and comfort. But this, this was too fast, too ferocious, too unexpected, too soon.

My husband came into my office last night, unhappy he was alone in his own. Karma followed him relentlessly, her pack leader, her daddy. And Sable followed Karma. Without Karma, we now see that Sable, in her advancing years, is now content to lie at my feet, leaving my husband (the self-described "dog whisperer") alone.

Our 3000 SF, 4 bedroom house has always felt full, crowded even. Ridiculous, really, for two people who have yet to know the joys of children. But now we know it was all her. She filled this cavernous house with her noise and energy, and now, even with 7 souls still living in it, it feels eerily quiet and empty. Lifeless.

We always thought we wanted mellow dogs; our intent had always been to stick with Golden Retrievers. In the early years of struggling with her dominance issues through obedience training and socialization, even our extensive dog handling skills were taxed, and we agreed our next dog would be old and quiet. Now we have one that's old and quiet and it's not enough. Karma brought joyful chaos into our lives and we grew from it.

I was in tears this morning before I was fully awake. There was no sweet face nudging me awake, shoving toys into my hands, pushing aside the covers to plant her head firmly in chest or armpit. When I got up, there was no tripping over her as I stumbled blindly to the bathroom, and no silly face forcing open the bathroom door with a goofy "watcha doin'?" look while I peed. All the little interactions that I took for granted, that in reality defined our relationship. That's what I'm missing most today, my first without her.

Through my grief and my tears I can already feel the pain lessening ever so slightly, the weight on my chest lifting just enough so I can breathe again. And I know that, eventually, I will be able to see her picture clearly, and not blurred by tears.