On Grief: It's A Bit Hard To Focus Revisited

A piece written while I attempt to process mine. My grief about having to say goodbye to a dog. My dog. This one has been difficult to write.

Young Zelda (2) Old Zelda (4)

The spoken word is man's physician in grief. For this alone has soothing charms for the soul.

Menander

Here’s Day Two of my Ten Days Of Writing. Lots of capitalized words there. My addition to this piece is at the end.

Original Post January 15, 2023.

It's A Bit Hard To Focus

I am troubled tonight. This morning? Both are accurate. From last night into this morning I am troubled. It is early, to be fair. More accurately, I am sad and do not want to do what must be done.

I keep distracting myself with menial activities. Meaningless activities, probably. Again, I am not sure. I just think I don't want to face the day. This day. Yeah, this day is a better way to put it.

I kept thinking and I kept hoping that Zelda would last the weekend. I kept thinking and hoping. Sentence structure is not important this morning it seems. Actually, I was hoping I was just wrong that the cancer came back in the way it did. I knew it came back. I wanted to be stupid or mistaken. I was hoping she had a quality of life at a level I could justify not having to end it. Justify it to myself and anyone who asked, I guess. 

I’d rather be stupid than without Zelda. Why couldn’t it have been that?

She's just a dog, right? No, not at all. Let's be real in these writings, she's far more than that. Of course family. "When you're here, you're family." Right? She's an Olive Garden customer according to that measure of what makes family. 

Odd reference, Andrew.

No, she's definitely family. But she's more than that. I cannot remember life without her. I cannot remember the feeling of living without her to be precise. I cannot recall what it is to go through my day, any day, and not see her, pet her, interact with her. To not fuss at her when she goes through the trash yet again only for her to ignore me. To not need to rub her floppy ears when she droopily waddles over to me when I enter the door. I just don't know what that is anymore. That absence of fussing. The absence of floppy ear rubs. Of pets for my pet. 

So I am scared of what days are like when she is no longer around. I mean, she's just a dog and I am a dad. I should be able to face this with far less difficulty. Or so I had hoped. Or so I had heard. That is not the case.

I am fighting against myself in order to avoid recalling any pleasant memories. I know I'll break down. What the hell is this? I do not understand this level of grief over my puppy. She is a dog, what is going to happen when I deal with a tragedy in the family?

There it is. I will deal with it as I am dealing with her imminent final goodbye. I have my son on my lap as I write this, exhausted, not being able to sleep. He's trying to sleep right now, sweet boy. But I cannot help but cry silently giving the top of his head a long kiss. Sweet boy. He came out here after he woke up this morning and crawled right here in my lap. He doesn't really do this much. Oh, now he wants to use my keyboard. Silly boy.

He finally gave it back when I enticed him with a "lunch burger". It's a breakfast sandwich but I liked the way he described it so we kept the moniker. Thank you for that distraction my boy. I love you. 

There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

Aeschylus

Back to my Zelda. That was the revelation. Not the boy thing, the revelation occurred to me but won’t be made clear until later in this paragraph. Sorry it was misleading. She isn't a part of the family, she is family. She is comfort. She is consistency and familiarity. I do not know what to expect when she is gone, but I know I won't adjust immediately. I have many reminders of pets long past.

So what makes her different? I may have it now, I may have put my finger on it. Though the words prior to this may think otherwise I have definitely figured it out, I'm sure of it!

It's gone, the thought. I don't know. I don't really cry often. I can tear up, I get goosebumps during sad songs. I love being able to feel music and art that way.

But I don't cry. Not really cry.

But I did last night. Hard. And plenty. Why is she so different than the rest?

Rest, that would be nice. I need some rest. But I need some clarity first.

She was with me in California. Those were some interesting times. Interesting? Maybe, but they were some pretty shitty times, tough ones too. But she was there with me, she asked me to rub her floppy ears when I entered the door each time. I had to fuss at her when she would go through the trash, and she had to ignore me as usual. Tail wagging, loud panting. That's the sound of Zelda.

She came with me when I drove back to South Carolina from California in a single drive. Well, almost anyways. She was with me during that short nap after Atlanta. I know, almost there, right? Oh, and she was there when the walls blew out of my tire on the interstate driving through Mississippi shortly after midnight. And when I had to drive to a shop behind a very poorly lit Wal-Mart on a severely underinflated donut after waking the owner up and asking him to come give me a new tire. Fun times. Very friendly guy too, and very helpful. Covers, right? I should stop judging.

Jasper was there too. He was a cat named after a football player. A pretty cool dude. The cat and the player. Jasper is gone now, though Zelda remains. For just a little bit longer. Perhaps they will meet again. They would cuddle a good amount after a while. Great pets to have, really.

Jasper saved our lives on that trip. I was in the zone driving and he started freaking out. It freaked me out a bit and I started braking. I have no idea how fast I was going prior but when the tire blew I saw 80 on the odometer. I can still see it. I thought we were going to die.

Spoiler, we didn't.

But if I hadn't hit the brakes already? Who knows. I hit them harder than I am comfortable admitting usually, though I am admitting it now. Considering it was at the behest of a cat it's odd putting down for people to read. I braked, hard, because my cat told me to. That's not a normal sentence and more unusual still when you realize I am being completely serious.

Why did I bring up Jasper? To distract myself. I think. While writing on him it hit me, Zelda saved my life too. What a pair. I don't know exactly when but it was in South Carolina, after Cali. One of those low times in life when you're just lonely. Zelda has always been fairly clingy and starved for attention. Even if you're giving her attention she is asking for it. That part of her saved me. She wouldn't leave me alone. It seemed at the time more urgent than before. More incessant? More zealous. Her dogged search and desire for attention (haha, puns) kept me from taking my life and leaving my daughter without a father. It's quite shitty to admit that a dog is the reason, not my child. But my child was not around. I was deep and didn't see anything around me. It was over in my mind.

But leave it to Zelda to need some damn pets (verb: the act of receiving petting, to receive a pet, to be pet).

Crazy dog.

My kids have woken up. I already fed the boy, of course. One of my daughters is on the couch, the other ran back upstairs. The oldest is probably still asleep in her new loft bed. It's blondie on the couch. Crazy girl. 

I told her it hasn't been a great morning and I needed a minute to write this. That's some bullshit, a deflection. A deflection of responsibility because I'm SAD. Bullshit, Dad.

But I do love those kids. That dog. That cat. I love my wife. My family.

That's interesting. Going to love in my head as I write essentially a eulogy for my dog. 

Perhaps that's it. I love my dog. I love Zelda and I think that's okay. 

Yes, that is it. Any dissenting opinions? No? Okay yeah, that's it. Revelation.

She represented love when I felt I had none. She represented companionship when I felt I had none. She represented a continuation of life when I felt undeserving. She represented... No, she represents love and companionship and life. She represents, present tense, and will continue to represent unyielding gratitude for life and love and companionship. And pets. Both the noun and the verb. She loved her pets. I love my pets.

She just waddled up to me. She hasn't really been able to stand up by herself the last few days. What a good girl. 

What a great teacher too. Perhaps gratitude is something I must practice often now. And consistently. I had been trying, maybe she's the last part of my lesson. 

Bless her, she always saves me when I get too down. 

I am thankful for my time with her. I am thankful she allowed me to share in her life. I am thankful to have been there for the majority of it. I am even thankful I get to be there for the end. I am thankful I get to hold her while she slips away from me. While she slips away. For the last time.

I am thankful for her being my reminder to be thankful. To have gratitude for what is. And for what was. I will retain this gratitude because Zelda helped me find it. It was a gift.

Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.

Alphonse de Lamartine

And I am thankful she reminds me to focus on what’s important. My family and my loved ones. And that’s what I am going to do now. To go hold all my babies. They’re sad too, not just Dad. Dad is there to bring comfort and safety. I need to give them more comfort.

Thank you Zelda.

For Zelda I am thankful. For Zelda, I am thankful.

Love,

Dad

Two Years Later

She’s been gone for over two years now.

And yet somehow I still expect to hear the soft thump of her feet on the hardwood when I get up too quickly. Still glance down beside the bed, half expecting a warm, floppy-eared guardian snoring with her nose tucked under her paw. Grief doesn’t fade it just folds itself into the routine. Though it’s no longer sharp, no longer loud. But it’s still there. It’s a song I no longer remember but hum from time to time.

Sometimes, it hits me in odd ways. Like when I drop food on the floor and instinctively wait for her to clean it up. Or when the trash can is left out too long and I momentarily brace for the sound of her rummaging through it like the persistent trash bandit she always was. I used to fuss at her for it, and she used to ignore me like it was beneath her to even pretend she cared.

Classic Zelda.

I find myself telling stories about her to the kids and they listen and nod along. They know I like telling those stories and since it’s Zelda they don’t even make faces or whine at me. Which is nice.

I realize now that losing Zelda was also saying goodbye to a piece of my own story. A chapter that spanned cross-country drives, depression I didn’t want to admit, sleepless nights, early mornings, and the quiet spaces in between. She was a constant during a time when everything else shifted. A living timeline of my becoming.

I’m still becoming.

Some nights, when the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet, I swear I can still feel her walking past my chair, tail wagging, checking in. Then I look down and it’s Melody, not Zelda. But I love my Melody, too.

Her love isn’t gone. Just redistributed. In my memories, in the way I show up for my kids, in the part of me that no longer fears softening.

She left behind both memories and capacity. For love. For presence. For gratitude. She reminded me what it looks like to just be there with no agenda, no expectation, nothing.

So here’s to you, Zelda. You’re still teaching me. Still saving me. And I still love you.

Grief is so human, and it hits everyone at one point or another, at least, in their lives. If you love, you will grieve, and that's just given.

Kay Redfield Jamison