Last week I wrote my first diary for this series; the story of my late partner Michael. This week, since no one else volunteered you're stuck with me again :) Up at the top of each one of these diaries is the emblem that Dem in the Heart of Texas designed with the names of everyone who’s been lost and mentioned since the series began. Michael’s name is up there – and it makes me tear up a little each time I see it. The other name up there that I grieve over is "Muppet".
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
A link to all previous Grieving Room Diaries ->http://www.dailykos.com/...
But Muppet wasn’t a person, Muppet was a little dog, a Pekingese. And as I sat down to write this I began to realize just how inadequate our grieving mechanisms are when we lose a beloved pet.
When Michael died I had family support around me, people sent cards, there was a memorial service. It was expected that I wouldn’t be myself for a while, that I would need time to process that loss. Some folks made mistakes – my uncle in Florida will never know just how hurt I was when he talked about it being difficult to lose "a friend". He didn’t seem to get that an 11 year spousal relationship sort of went beyond "friendship". He’s old and a Republican, and he was trying, so what am I gonna do?
But on the morning I took Muppet to the vet for that last visit I was at work by 10:00 am. A few people told me "oh what a shame" – but that was about it. The idea that I would need some time, not be at my best, barely occurred to me. It certainly didn’t occur to anyone else. She was just a dog, right? Just need to suck it up and go on – maybe get a new dog to "replace" her.
But even grief over a pet doesn’t work that way. To me Muppet wasn’t "just a dog". Muppet was my family – the only living link I really had to Michael. She had been there for me, in a way that people had not been, every day of my life since Michael died. Caring for her, being responsible for her, gave me a reason to get up every day, gave me a reason to go on. And one morning a little over a year ago, just about the time I thought I was finally beginning to be fully functional, to have my life back on track, she began having seizures. By the next morning I had her jaw cancer diagnosis and the heartbreaking responsibility to end her life. And it may not be politically correct or true for all people, but the grief I felt over her didn’t feel much different than the grief I felt over Michael.
And yet there were no mechanisms. No chance to sit around and tell funny stories about her. No chance to celebrate her life and what it meant to me. No chance to grieve.
I did get that "replacement dog" – I lasted about two days after Muppet died before I was online with the rescue organizations in the area. Duchess came into my life exactly one month later, looking like Muppet’s evil twin but insisting on her own individuality by having a completely different personality. And as much as I have loved having Duchess in my life she really isn't a "replacement". She and I have had different experiences and since we have a tendency to outlive our dogs I will someday almost certainly grieve anew over her. It's the price we pay for loving a pet. But after a year I think it's time for that celebration for Muppet - so here are a few memories:
• That first day, picking her up as a 3 month old puppy from the shelter, thinking – "can I really love something that homely?". Michael falling in love with her instantly. Driving home with the windows down in 95 degree heat and dumping her in the bath the minute we got home to rid her of the chemical stench from the flea dip they’d given her. Observing that she looked like a Jim Henson creation and giving her the generic "Muppet" name when we realized that there really weren't any female Muppets to name her after (Miss Piggy didn't fit ...)
• Finding her almost dead, half in the 55 degree water on the top step of the pool after we’d left her in the screened area to run to the grocery store for a few minutes. Warming her up with towels from the dryer. Teaching her how to get out of the pool on her own if she ever fell in again. Laughing at her determination never to get near the evil cold water thing if she could avoid it – even if it meant she had to abandon the ball that had rolled into it.
• Me being silly with Michael – mocking his incessant disco music playing by dancing past him in the living room. Muppet seeing this and deciding to dance on her hind legs with me.
• Muppet getting so excited when one of us got home that she spun in mad circles – but always clockwise, never counter-clockwise.
• Taking her to the "dog beach" in St. Pete and having a large Rottweiler stick his nose in her face. Muppet biting him in the nose and chasing the terrified Rott down the beach. Me trying to choke down hysterical laughter long enough to run and retrieve her.
• Muppet watching as the movers took the last of my stuff out of the apartment, calmly walking to the door, sitting and looking up as if to say – "ok, they’re done, let’s get the hell out of here!"
• The first week we had her, all 3 pounds of her sitting on my shoulder in the car, waiting in the Publix parking lot for Michael to finish shopping. A week or so later going to an outdoor pow-wow with Michael, Muppet tagging along. Two young teenage boys following us around for half the day - trying to pretend they were cool but really just wanting to watch the cute puppy.
So, yes, she was "just" a dog. And it's really nice to remember some of the good things and not just that bad last 24 hours. I think the same is true when we lose the people we love. So ... tell us some of your good memories of lost pets or lost people. What story did you not get to tell?