Weird Grief

“It’s ok to feel relief,” Dr Chase said with kindness, “She was not an easy dog”

On Thursday, sixteen days after she died, I picked up Harlow’s ashes from the vet’s office. Dr Chase, who saw Harlow on and off since she was a puppy, (and was definitely our favorite vet) happened to be in the lobby and we had a nice chat. She reassured me that there is no wrong way to grieve and I appreciated that. My rational brain knows this to be true, but the way I have been feeling is unsettling.

I have not missed my dog the way I know I “should” be missing her right now.

I expected to feel a weight in my chest and a sadness that bloomed in the morning when I woke, and followed me through my days after she died. I had read that eucalyptus was a good aromatherapy for grief, so I bought some. I wondered how dysfunctional I would be for my UPAA tasks. Would I make an ass out of myself at work because I was so upset?

That has not been my reaction. I have these subtle, subconscious flashes of doing things like making sure I leave one end of the couch clear, but when I realize it’s unnecessary I simply recognize that. It’s a fact. I turn the key in my door when I return home and for a split second in my subconscious I expect her to be there, but then just as quickly, I remember she is not. And I do not react to the silence. I just notice it.

I do not look at her empty bed and wonder why she isn’t here. I do not look at the stuffed friends still on the fireplace hearth and cry at the sight of them. I do not look at the countless thoughtful cards, the stone with her name engraved into it, the necklace with the charms on it – one with her face, one her nose, and one her name – and get emotional.

Rather, it’s sort of, Oh that’s right. My dog died.

How is it possible that twelve years, eight months and however many days feels like it literally didn’t happen? How am I almost…shrugging about this?

Thankfully, my apparent apathy is not constant. The day after she left, I was focused on things I needed to get done for the UPAA symposium, and trying to not judge myself for being so seemingly unfazed by this very upsetting loss in my life.

As I was putting away a step stool into the closet I saw Harlow’s shampoo. I picked up the bottle, opened the cap and breathed in the honeysuckle scent of the shampoo and burst into tears. While I cried in my hallway remembering how she smelled after a bath, I just kept thinking It’s my job to take care of her. How can I take care of her if she’s not with me? I don’t know where she is! I can’t get to her! Where is my girl?

And then it passed.

If I talk about Harlow I sometimes get choked up. I inadvertently made all my colleagues cry along with me in a photo department meeting a week or so after she died. I watched them wipe their eyes while I whimpered about my guilt for making the choice I’d made the week prior.

I was watering my plants today when I began to cry. I was not thinking about Harlow specifically. The best way I can describe it is I wasn’t thinking about her, but she passed through my heart. On campus last week, I kept getting emotional. I was not thinking of her specifically, but again, she was sitting in my heart and it made me weepy.

If someone were to ask me what she was like, I might say she was an aloof dog who most definitely gave her love conditionally. If I didn’t pet her just right, she’d walk away, lie down on the rug in the other room with a disappointed thump and let out an audible sigh. Harrumph! I’ve been thinking maybe she greeted me at the door because it was something breaking up her day, not because she was excited I was home. When we went for walks, she never, ever, looked up at me. It was all about what was in front of her. She walked to go on walks, not to walk with me. When she came to me, it was for attention, not to say hello.

These may be truths, or even half truths. I look back at photos of my dog and stories I’ve written about her day-to-day antics and I know full well that I loved her to pieces. She was a character, or as my friend Rachel said, “She’s an icon”. Ha! But something is blocking me from remembering why, and my brain defaults to these half-truths. These rather negative opinions.

Life is a bit askew these days. I never realized how much Harlow’s existence created work life balance for me. With no one to get home to, more than few times now I’ve found myself at work past 5:30, my calves tight and neck sore from sitting at the computer. Or suddenly I’m hungry and I see it’s 7:15 and I have not eaten dinner because she was not here to inform me that it was 6pm and time for me to eat so she could get her beloved evening dental chew.

There are of course countless versions of this. I removed the railing from the back stoop. It was essentially a section of a heavy duty dog pen, and I put it there because she would not stop jumping off the stoop. As she aged this habit of hers became dangerous for her weakening joints. One morning last week when I came out to the stoop to cut some chive I literally gasped at the change of the environment before remembering that I was the one who made the change.

I often find the dog door open but don’t recall opening it even though I know I did.

Before going to bed I often would lay down on the floor next to her and jam my face into hers, giving her a staccato of kisses. She tolerated it. I talked to her all the time, constantly told her I loved her. Petted her every time I passed her. While I do not miss the constant worry, I loved having someone to love, and someone to care about and care for.

The fear of losing her from cancer, my worries about her tummy issues, navigating her anxieties and fears, the responsibility of being her only caretaker. (Not to mention the strain on my bank account). This is all weight I need distance from. Because those things were part of her life, but not who she was and what was great about her. While I know it will hurt, I look forward to remembering all the things about her that I loved. Because she was, indeed, lovable!