Grief can be a fast moving train...

Grief, a fast moving train, bound for oblivion, overcomes us. We can let it derail our lives or we can grab a seat in the cushioned arms of those who love us. I chose the latter seeking solace and comfort from my family and friends who so willingly embraced the challenge, never minimizing the degree of my suffering by saying that it was "only a dog," or "that he lived a full happy life." I miss my Willie. My heart aches for him.

In quiet reflection, I asked my psyche, my spirituality and my body to guide me healthfully through this painful process. Answers came easily.  I increased my workout efforts, fed myself healthful foods, allowing my brain to shut off at night, welcoming dreamless sleep. I know what I have to do. 

 I gathered unhealed grief from recent times and invited it to join in this pool of sorrow, having been tucked away to face at another time…and now, the time was here. 

Two days after we lost him, it was Monday.  DDD had gone off to work early and for the first time in almost 12 years I was truly alone.  I didn’t bolt out of bed to let him out to go “good potty,” or to slightly warm a bowl of his homemade food in the microwave or pour him a bowl of fresh water, or to listen for his gentle knock at the door when he was ready to come inside.  I know what I have to do.

I took the walk to Poop Park alone, no little red harness, no leash in hand, no WorldWideWillie. Retracing the steps we took each day, soft paper towel in hand sopping up tears along the way; no little red harness, no leash in hand, no WorldWideWillie. 

Warming my hands in the cold air, I reached into my pocket to find the plastic bag we never needed to use since he refused to poop in front of me all of his little life.  He’d go for DDD but not me.  He had private places to go away from my view.  I often giggled about it thinking it was a guy-girl thing, the way we are shy about bodily functions when we first are in love.

It’s been ten days today.  I miss him so. Each night I expect to feel his tiny body nuzzled up to my feet, resting his weary chin on my outstretched foot and lying quietly all night, occasionally annoyed by my stirring after which he would reposition himself, digging in his chin to this familiar resting spot. 

The pet steps are still there, the toys, neatly stacked in his little bed.  Each day I put away another reminder knowing full well that doing so is a part of the healing.  I know what I have to do.

This Monday, a week after the lonely first walk, I decided not to cry for a few days and to laugh in its place. To laugh about the nose prints still on the inside of the glass in my car, to laugh at the treats we have found tucked into sofa cushions or hidden under furniture, to laugh seeing Max, the dog next store, digging into the spot where Willie had hidden a bone in the neighbor’s yard on the day he died, as a token of his friendship to the dogs he loved.

The corner has been turned; the healing as a natural progression that nature has given us, with the skills and desire to move on.  There still will be tears. There still will be a sudden sob with a wave of pain in our chests. There still will be his missing Easter basket filled with treats and toys.  There still will be the fishing off the dock without his excitement over the bouncing red bobber. There still will be the 4^th of July without him shivering on my lap.  There still will be an m...o...u...s…e or an s…q…u running up a tree. 

But I know what I have to do and I am doing it.

We love you Willie.  We always will.


MMM