Brilliant … But Bouncy

I Want My Dog.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt grief before. When I was younger, and well into my adulthood, I covered up my grief with anything I could find: alcohol, cigarettes, food. Today, I have nothing external to squash the internal pain.

There are things happening around me. My children are growing up. My husband had a hip replacement and is on the mend. He’s driving again and gone back to work. I, too, have signed up to work – although I haven’t actually done any work yet.

But I wake up thinking about my dog, even in the middle of the night. I wake up and I wonder if she’s there with me, or if she’s running through the fields in heaven. I look for her all day. I see her; I hear her. I miss her.

Almost immediately, I started looking for another dog. I have loved dogs since I was a tiny girl, since I discovered that there were different breeds and different shapes and sizes. I have loved dogs since I first met a dog. So I started looking for another dog.

But none of the dogs online are right. None of the dogs at the shelter are right. They aren’t the dogs I want. I want my dog.

I don’t feel like I did when my friend, Pete, died. I adored Pete and I miss him terribly. I wish he would stop by and see me, like he used to do. Pete died almost ten years ago, and I think about him all the time. But as sad as I am about Pete, this is harder.

I feel like I’ve lost a limb. I feel like I’m trying to regrow an arm that has no chance of regrowth. I have to relearn how to do everything in my own home. She’s not here, and I am lost without her.

I wake up and I look for her. I envision her waddling down the steps in front of me, like she did every day. I wonder why her bed isn’t behind my chair, where it belongs. I keep thinking I should let her outside. I wonder why she’s not jumping into the car when I get in, why I can’t give her a treat before I leave. I forget that she’s gone, and then I remember, over and over and over again, every day.

This is a parenting blog. I am supposed to write about my kids. And things are happening with them, so I will try. I will make myself write; I will make myself be present, even when I feel – deep down in a profound way – that there is no reason for me to get out of bed in the morning.

I will be there for my kids, my husband, my work, my life. I will be there, and I will write about it.

But a bright light has gone out, and it is hard to find my way in the dark.