Grief

4/7/2019

   GRIEF

  You know, even as you get a pet, you will outlive it --- but you go ahead and get it anyway. Haley was a rescue dog twice over. My Mom got her from a shelter and then we took her in when Mom went to assisted living. It's amazing how quickly a dog becomes part of your daily routine: the walks, the feeding time, the idiosyncrasies. 6:53 a.m. That's when Haley would clomp her way into our room and stick her cold nose against me each morning --- or just stand there and stare until somehow, even in a deep sleep, I could feel the stare. "Let's go out!" she'd wag, running out to the hallway and sitting, sphinx-like at the edge of the stairs until I got there --- where she would take a step down and s t r e t c h, before heading down. After the walks, and her treats, she'd wait on the landing until I made the coffee and brought it upstairs, where the Lovely Carol Marie and I would watch the news, read the paper --- often with Haley jumping up, to sidle between us.

The poem below was written on August 5, 2017. We had recently gotten the diagnosis that Haley had a significant tumor on her spleen and it would be touch and go from here on --- she might "go" at any time. There were a couple of scares, a thyroid prescription, a long period of relative ease, tail-wagging, begging for food as we ate in front of the t.v.. and general happy dog-ness. Yesterday's poem chronicled the last day. We're bereft and second-guessing ourselves, of course, but it was her time and now we're wrestling with all those Kubler-Ross stages of grief (in no particular order!). I'm posting the 2017 poem again because I think it's a good companion piece to yesterday's --- and because it's my way of working through this wrenching period. Thanks for reading.

The Last Dog

This is the last dog
I’ll take for a walk.

That will sleep at the foot of the bed
and wag so ferociously as I unlock
the front door, entering the home.

Evening walks these days,
remembering puppies and “pedigrees,”
rascals and ruffians,
cuties and cuddlers

flashing by on that magic lantern that is memory.

The one who lived with all the cats,
The puppies who devoured Mom’s couch,
The one who killed her puppies.

The perfect Jack, smarter than us.
The bumbling, lumbering Beau-beau, surrounded by schoolchildren.
The neurotic mutts inherited from parents;
the stray, Max, and his college degree.

That continual stream,
that river of canines
flowing through your life,
“on the bus” (with you) all the way.

They never judge
and never scold.
The constancy of their love
buoys you
always.

This is the last dog
I’ll take for a walk.

(08/05/2017)

2 Comments

Rick Casey

4/7/2019 20:59:13

I’m sorry for your loss, Bil. We got Bandit two plus years ago from the Briarcliff ASPCA. We waiting til I had retired so we would never have to leave him in an empty house all day in solitary confinement and sensory deprivation.

He was 2 months old when we got him and now he is reaching an age, I think young adult, in which he is starting to become a bit less rambunctious and impulsive.

Every day, I think about the period of grief that you are now passing through now. I monitor his appetite, I’m CONSTANTLY checking his nose to be sure it is cold and moist. I watch his gait when he sprints or lopes after tennis balls. I wonder what he is feeling when he looks sad or why he doesn’t want to go for a hike. I think of him like a son who can’t speak and I imagine losing him someday will feel like losing a child...not a parent or brother. I wonder how old I will be when Bandit departs and how I will handle it.

Your description of the morning wake up stare, the top-of-the-stairs stretch and the wagging tail at the door perfectly reflect how Bandit acts too.

Thanks for sharing your grief. They say sharing it cuts it in half. And I’m pretty sure that the decision you made for your best friend is the one you would want someone to make for you in the same situation. I need to go cry now because I dread the days that you are now living. Hang in there, my friend.🙁

Bil Johnson link

4/7/2019 21:23:47

Rick:
Thanks for the touching words. Enjoy all your time with Bandit —- and take LOTS of pictures & videos (I’ve been very remiss in this with both Haley & Jack and regret it now!). We’re pushing through this, but it’s ridiculously difficult.....on a lighter note, shoot me an email (estreetbil71@gmail.com) and let’s see if we can head to the Big Ballpark in the Bronx some time this summer and catch up. Thanks again.

The Blast

Grief

Leave a Reply.