Today I opened this blog for the first time in a long while. At the very top, I saw three consecutive attempts to post - my first Christmas without Dan, a reflection on not waiting till someone you love is gone, to do things that celebrate their life,and another, just outpouring of sadness, after I found a line about how "Gabriel was sent by Daniel"...three attempts to write something, all ended with tears and depression. I carry my grief with me every day, I guess I've felt like I don't really need to open up this blog and pour more fuel on the fire of sadness and regret.
But today I am posting this, and maybe will even go back and add the others. Nobody, save for a loving inner circle ever reads this blog, so it's more for my own memories and processing, but that counts too. I'm not writing here about how the loss of one funny little sweetheart of a dog haunts and hurts me, to gain some kind of wide audience. It's for me - and for him - and anyone who happens upon it that may relate. I totally get that my writing may make others very sad as well. But I need to post this - for Danny, for my own soul, for everyone who has lost a living being they loved beyond words.
I have been washing one of Danny's harnesses today - an old one, ill-fitting, but that I cannot part with for many reasons. He wore it for many years, and while I made attempts to buy him a new one, I was uneasy buying online back then, I had almost no money, and what if the one I bought wasn't a good fit? Better to stick with the ill-fitting one he has (and doesn't seem to mind). He really only needed a new one to go into town with, and we rarely did that. His harnesses were always referred to as his "littles" - everything about Danny was little - so it's weird to even write about his "harness". He had his littles, and for many years, he wore this grey one. All through his mature years - from maybe ...3? to when we left Rupert just before he turned 11, he wore this thing. I didn't even put it on him correctly. But, it was his Little and the sight of it hanging on his empty chair, fills me with pain and longing.
And then, last week, I recently realized, it smells bloody awful.
I did wash that thing - I mean, dozens of times in the years when he was wearing it.But honestly, I didn't often wash HIM - a point that brings me much pain when I think about it these days. Washing him was like so many things I didn't do - or to be more accurate, gave up trying to do - because he hated it so much. I recall a few adventures in Dan-washing back at the house - I'd bring multiple large basins of warm water out back, and soap and towels, and tether Monk to the fence - 2 hours later, covered in water and usually with some kind of injury (me) he'd be clean but I'd be exhausted, and I hated stressing him so much. This was the period where I was washing Jasmine almost daily as she was totally incontinent - urine and feces - and would often have diarrhea in the night, the diaper didn't hold it, and then - since she had advanced CCD and paced all night) the whole downstairs had to be mopped as well. I'd be washing HER and the bedding and the floor half the day (Alex was in Saskatchewan). So yes, I didn't wash my Rabbit enough, and he got a little stinky, and seeing as I'm his Mom and all, I really didn't mind.
But the Little - well it does smell. And not smell of HIM - his sweet, warm, puppydog aroma I loved so much - but of stale fur oil and country- dog -who-walks- an-hour -every-day (at least) offleash and may just get into stuff when Mom is bent over some strange little woodland plant or other. I have to wash it - there is no choice - if it is to hang on the back of his chair in my office - I simply have to wash his Little.
The problem is - this. It is covered in his fur - one of the last items I have that is (his winter coat notwithstanding) and washing it, crazy as this sounds, feels like washing away more of him - as if he hasn't already been gone almost 14 months, as if every single day his absence is not palpable, heart rending, omnipresent. But I just have to do it, and let go of the stink and the bit of fur and the desperate hanging on that I do. So today, this is it - a day "off" (such as I ever actually get one) and I am filling my rabbit bowl with scented soap and well water, soaking and rinsing and adding rose oil until the damn ill-fitting stinky old Little smells as sweet and sacred as my memories of my boy. As my love for him that death cannot touch...as the lilacs in May at our home in the country. And for some reason this act just breaks me in pieces, and brings everything about the end back in such acute detail, I cannot wait to get it done.
Danny's fur lined Little, soaking in a rabbit bowl with cedar and a crystal from our Holy Place.
I wrote this poem today and it says it all, for me. The pain, the love, the memories that burn and sear more than they comfort and uplift.
So far, anyway.
That is o beautiful - so real. I can almost imagine that I am there watching you carry out this task and trying to pull some of your pain to me so that you do not have to bear it all alone. We all have those 'things' that seem useless or unnecessary to other when our fur children leave this world. In my case, with my cat Mog, it was his litter box of all things. I just simply could not part with it - I couldn't even move it from where it had stood for such a very, very long time. I never tell anyone this, but after he passed, I used to close my eyes and scratch my fingers through the litter to mimic the sound he made. It made me feel closer to him - I could almost convince myself he was with me. I lived alone at that time and I found the evening and night so long and lonely without my boy, so anything I could do to recreate the life we had together I would do - I went so far as to putting down his food bowl and replacing his water on a number of occasions. It was as though I was living two lives - my normal daily working life and a life that was somewhere between earth and wherever my boy had gone. I eventually crashed - the proverbial shit hit the fan and I fell apart completely. I don't recall all the details (it was in 2008) but I know I got help, medication and counselling. Did it help? It must have done in some way because I'm still here, but it was a long road. It took me years to even touch a cat - I knew if I did it might break me again. But eventually a cat touched me and I didn;t back away - I stroked the cat and I feel that was probably a breakthrough. Since then I have babysat my daughter's cats and love to see cats on TV or even around where I live. But I have never had another cat in my life. I've had three dogs since then, one now also at Rainbow Bridge and one who I live in daily fear of ever losing. I always told myself that someday I would have another cat, but now that I am 60, I fear that I may be the one to cross over and leave the cat behind and that is a real fear I have regarding any animals in the future. Cats can live to 20+ years and I'd never want to risk confusing a precious animal by just vanishing from their life. Maybe I over-think think - in fact I know that I do. But that's who I am and 60 years hasn't changed me so I doubt at this stage I will ever be any different.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for so generously sharing your memories of Mog, and losing Mog. Of all the people I know, you are among the very few who REALLY get the pain and suffering and depression of this last year. I have been close to falling apart many times and only got through it with the love and support of my other animals, who need me, but I've been so close. And I share your concern about new animals - I am 64 in June and have a serious health issue, I did get a puppy as you know, and every day I ask that I outlive him...I will not outlive Korky, my parrot, and that is a huge and terrible worry, despite the many excellent bird people I know who would take him in a heartbeat. But such is life, and we who love so very much also hurt equally deeply.
ReplyDeleteThnk you again for always being here for me during this odyssey of pain and regret. Lately I have felt my depression life a little and I hope it lasts. I hesitate to write about my pain over a dog, in this world of such strife and suffering. It is always such a comfort to know I am not alone, although I wouldn't wish this on anyone, it IS the "price we pay".
Much love to you and yours.
Never hesitate to write about your pain - it's as real as the pain felt by others albeit with a different source. We can only feel true pain when it directly impacts our own lives - at least that is my belief. I rationalize this by thinking that, if it were different, we would spend our entire lives submerged in grief for everything that happens in the world. Plus, and I don't say this lightly, you are referring to your Daniel who was without doubt your entire world.
DeleteMy fear of my animals outliving me is that I do not have anyone that I know to love and care for them as I do. The only person I would trust is my daughter, Tracey, who lives in Canada. She knows that, if I have any animals in my life when I leave this world that she becomes their guardian and is happy to take on that 'task'. I am happy to have her do it, although I know she won't cook for them!! I worry about my pets confusion if I am suddenly gone - how will they understand that I didn't just abandon them? It's just the way my mind works - very few understand it and I do not open up about my thoughts very often. But I feel safe doing so here with you.
Life has so many twists and turns that making decisions of any kind is probably fruitless - it will follow its course regardless. I know I should not overthink it.
Much love is returned to you in abundance and also to Gabriel, who I truly consider to have been sent to you by Daniel to help you. Clearly Mog did not have the same thought process - but, then again, when did cats ever think like dogs!!!