After...

After losing a special member of the family, after the initial outpouring of grief and disbelief, come the firsts. The first time an action, or event, or activity, or special occasion, or memorable date comes along, the grief comes flooding back. The hard lump forms at the back of the throat, the eyes liquefy, and the pain is renewed.

A few days from now marks the 15^th year after losing my sister. I still miss her every day. I wish I could talk to her. I feel like she knows where I am and what I’m doing, but I really miss my big sister’s advice. I have long passed the age she was when she died, but she will always be my older sister. It’s weird to think I have outlived her and known things that she had yet to experience. If only I could talk to her.

Losing a pet is like losing any family member. I know this only too well because I have sadly experienced both. The emptiness their absence creates is bigger than the life that once occupied that space. Everywhere you look within your familiar surroundings there are those spots that used to be filled with their physical presence and now are just…empty.

The heat from their body, their every breath that was taken for granted when present, their smell, whether freshly groomed or needing a bath, the weight of their head on your lap, are all just gone. Gone feels so empty. Gone feels so final. Gone is never to return.

That first walk up the hill with only one leash in hand, instead of two. Getting to the top where there used to be the anticipation of a lizard sighting, is now just the top of the hill. The wall just a wall. The lizards no longer run from the panting excitement that once chased them down. The other leash no longer pulls in unison with excitement, but rather hangs loose at my side ambling along with me, keeping pace, because pets grieve too.

The fur siblings are all showing varying signs of sadness. One feline is licking the fur off his tummy with a vengeance, the other won’t leave my side. But the canine sibling, especially, has fallen into a deep sadness. Where once the tail was constantly up and wagging, it now hangs at half-mast. Mealtimes used to be a highlight, and now it seems a chore to stand up and walk to the dish, consumption is slow and disinterested, no matter the enticing tidbits thrown in.

Today marks a week since we said goodbye. The tears still flow at the mention of her name, or the empty bed beside ours, or seeing the empty spot on the couch. The disbelief seems ever present, and the emptiness vast. To help ourselves through the grieving process we find talking about our memories and reliving the times, both good and bad, are important. Her collar is tucked under the pillow and during the night when sleep evades, it helps a little to hold it and feel her with us.

Our concern is shifting from constant care of our dying pet to our living ones. Are they really depressed and sad at losing their fur sister, or is there something more sinister going on with them too? Can a pet grieve like we do? Can they be sad at those first activities now alone that they used to have a companion to share with? Do they have memories of what was and now isn’t? Do they really know she’s gone, gone for good? Or, do they think she’s just not here…for now?

I’m sure there are ‘experts’ who would willingly answer all my questions, but how do they really know? I’ve had fur kids my entire life, and as close and loved as each of them has been, not one of them has ever spoken out loud to me about their thoughts and feelings. Well, there was that time we were having breakfast at the table chatting away, and Livvie came along and sat on the floor between us, watching us back and forth as we spoke. Finally, she must have felt she also needed to contribute because she started ‘talking’ to each of us back and forth. “Arrhoo, rah, hoo, arr…” But we couldn’t understand a single word, though she did appear to be very engaged and looked as though we should. As cute and funny, and memorable, that moment was, it was absolutely the closest we ever came to talking to our fur kids.

We can transfer our feelings to them. We can assume how they must be feeling. We can interpret their actions to have a certain meaning. But, with all certainty, we cannot know what or how they feel. If we could, we could maybe help them more. As it is, all we can do is love them up and make sure all their needs are met, and hope, like with us, that time will ease the harsh, acute ache we all feel.

Of course we are glad she’s no longer suffering, in pain and discomfort, fearful. But, now it’s about the survivors, and the survivors struggle each day. Often the question “Why?” is asked at a loved one’s passing. Why did they get that disease? Why couldn’t they live longer? Why, why, why? We don’t get the answers to those whys? We just have to get by.

Barnaby, sad, perhaps wondering if she's out there...