Thank You

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break. ~ William Shakespeare

Thank you, kind reader, for visiting all the posts chronicling the loss of ottoman-shaped dog. You have shared -- and thereby lightened -- the burden of my grief, and I am tremendously grateful.  You are such a blessing to me. 

With love,

Herself

The Unanswerable Questions

Herself contemplates the mysteries of death. 

The evening after The End, Beloved Husband and I drove past the veterinarian's tiny offices on the way home from an errand.  No cars were parked in the lot; the windows were dark, the 'Closed' sign hung by the door. We wondered whether Thorbert's body was still there, or whether it had been moved onward to be cremated as we'd requested.  

The thought of Thorbert's furry ottoman-shaped body being there in the building all alone yielded an abrupt and harrowing sensation -- like stepping on a needle-thin shard of glass.  All of a sudden I was sliced wide open, gasping at the sudden pain, panicking. It was as though all of the tiny moments of Thorbert's patient waiting by the front door for me over the past ten years had reappeared synchronously, coalesced into a thunderous, suffocating cloud of longing.     

MY DOG. HE'S ALONE. HE BELONGS WITH ME. 

I knew it was a nonsensical thought.  I clutched at the hope that Thorbert had known within his furry heart that I would never abandon him. I wrapped myself in the reminder that Thorbert is gone and no longer feels separation anxiety, longing, fear, or pain.  It was a thin cloak against the raging tempest that had so unexpectedly appeared.  I held my breath. The tornado passed me by, brushing me with its bitter and cold edges.  Exhale.  Wipe my eyes.  Breathe again. 

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. 

― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

The question remains:  where is Thorbert now?

As a scientist, part of me distinctly thinks that he is just No More.  His biological processes have ceased.  His essence is gone.

But is it? Perhaps his soul -- for there is no doubt that he had one -- has somehow merged with the greatness of the Universe.  If so, the Universe is a better place for it.  

Is he with God?  I would rejoice to know that Thorbert is with his Creator, in eternal joy. I am frustrated that my mind's eye cannot yet imagine it.  It is revoltingly, appallingly egotistic of me to have difficulty picturing him so happy without me, yet his unwavering dedication to me during his lifetime somehow makes it hard for me to envision.  Or perhaps -- and this is a naked, uncomfortable admission -- it is rather that I cannot yet bear to think that I am no longer the fortunate object of his unceasing devotion.  I was so accustomed to his unconditional love.  

Perhaps now, both he and I are taking our steps towards perfection.  As we recently noted:

When Love has matured and, through a dissolution of the self into light, become a radiance, then shall the Lover be liberated from dependence upon the Beloved, and the Beloved also be made perfect by being liberated from the Lover. ― Dag Hammarskjöld, Markings

You have gone towards the light, my treasured ottoman-shaped dog.  You are the light. You are free, and you are perfect.  Perhaps, if I am extremely lucky, we shall meet again someday.

Big Brother

Herself writes again about the dog relationships.

Tiny Dog Maya was so very small when she first came home with us, that we generally kept her separated from Daisy and Thorbert.  Over the past year, though, as she has matured, we have realized that she can get along well with the others as long as we keep a reasonable eye upon them when they are all in the same room.  Maya and Daisy tend to try to vie for the Top Dog position; it's still up in the air as to who will ultimately win, although given the size differential, it's likely to be Daisy -- Maya wisely defers at the last second to the dog who weighs fifteen times what she does.

Thorbert, always mild-mannered, tolerated Maya ever so patiently.  Maya, ever territorial about people and food, would snap at him when he jumped up onto the couch to sit with me, or if he stood too closely to me while I was eating. He never snapped back. Good boy, Thorbert.

Some times, Maya would try to play with Thorbert.  He never understood the concept of Play, and would look slightly confused and alarmed at Maya's efforts.  Other times, Maya would lie down next to Thorbert and nudge her tiny head under his chin.  He would lick her noggin thoughtfully, and she would melt into relaxation under his damp ministrations.

Two days ago, Maya approached Daisy and attempted to encourage her to do the same.  Daisy delivered a look that clearly stated, "I am annoyed and do not have time for such trivia."  Alas, Maya.  There will be no more noggin-licking.

Little Brother

Herself writes about the dog relationships.

Daisy was three when we adopted one-year-old Thorbert.  Daisy had been a very silly dog -- all giant feet and goofiness, ambling about like the tiny puppy she still apparently thought she was.  With another dog in the household, though, Daisy suddenly grew up.  She took on the role of the dominant dog, the responsible older sister.  She showed Thorbert what was what and where was where, and they settled into an easy companionship. Except for the occasional tussle over a molecule of food (Thorbert's one passion), they got along very well.  They were a solid pair. And they matched, with their black and white fur.  Though neither dog enjoyed cuddling much, they would oftentimes rest near one another.  In fact, an hour of Thorbert's last morning was spent lying on the floor near Daisy.

Late last night, Daisy woke me up by standing next to the bed and softly woofing. She didn't want to go out. She just kept looking around. Eventually she sat back down on the couch where she usually sleeps, but she left a space at the end where Thorbert would usually sit. It took her quite a while to settle back down. I'm sure she was looking for Thorbert.  

So sad.

 The last nap together. 

Change

Herself continues to chronicle her thoughts about treasured ottoman-shaped dog, Thorbert.

Thorbert loved to eat.  His stomach had a built-in alarm clock for breakfast and dinner.  When his internal alarm rang, he would get up from wherever he was resting near me, and sit very closely to me, staring soulfully, wagging his stumpy tail urgently, sending brain waves of "DINNERTIME" through the ether.  He especially enjoyed the little treats - a piece of cheese, a square of cooked chicken - that I would give him with his pills and his insulin.  Whenever I worked in the kitchen, he'd stand near me, ever hopeful.  I'd give him a tiny sliver of the carrot or bell pepper I was chopping.  When I made myself lunch or a snack, he'd patiently wait for a taste.  I always saved him a molecule.  And when I cleaned up, he'd stand at attention by the dishwasher, attempting to lick away any food morsels I'd left on cutlery or plates. 

Without Thorbert, I now must rely on my alarm clock beeping in the morning.  I have no motivation to get up and start my day since I need no longer adhere to the schedule of meals and insulin for him.  Similarly, at 7 PM, I realize that there is no longer any urgency in the pet-feeding schedule. The joy of cooking, or even of making a simple sandwich, is diminished without his enthusiasm for ingredients.  The pleasure of a bowl of ice cream is lessened since he is not there to lick the spoon afterwards.  

Food is just not the same. Nothing, in fact, is quite the same. 

Because Thorbert always followed me around the house, I would do all my downstairs chores one after the other, collecting items to go upstairs in the front hall until it was time to move upwards.  I did not want him to have to run up and down the stairs, taxing his tiny legs, just to stay near me as he preferred.  Now, I can move around the house with impunity, make multiple trips with laundry, or whatever I like.  Yet I still feel the urge to consolidate.  It's an ingrained habit -- now, alas, an unnecessary one.

When I used my elliptical trainer, Thorbert would lie on the chaise/couch nearby.  If I was tired or needed a break, I would go and sit with him for a few minutes. Thorbert was not the kind of dog who asked for a lot of physical attention, but he would always sigh in a relaxed and sleepy manner when I'd pat his ears and ruffle his furry neck.  Now when I exercise, I have to find some other distraction for my rest interludes. 

Every time I walk up the path to the house, I can't help but look through the glass of the front door, first towards the floor and then towards the raised shelf behind the couch where Thorbert would wait for me to come home.  My eyes search and search for his familiar form. It is not there. The other canines eventually greet me when I enter the house, but it is not the same. 

Some moments, I am peaceful, relieved that his suffering is done. Other moments, I forcefully reign in thoughts and questions and doubts that attempt to gallop through my mind.  I cannot afford to allow "what ifs" to take up residence.  It is Finished. Godspeed, Thorbert. 

I know that the Offspring and Beloved Husband are grieving as well.  They know I am sad; I am not hiding that.  I am trying to show them that it is possible to reminisce and be sad, and to remember with love and move onwards, too.  I hope that their hearts are not too sore, and that they are healing in their grief.

Some moments, I can talk about him and about his absence.  Then unexpectedly and suddenly, my voice catches and I have to stop and gather myself. I hadn't realized how much of my daily routines, and my heart, I had given to my ottoman-shaped dog.  I cannot imagine ever again loving a creature the same way that I loved (and continue to love) Thorbert. 

I am afraid to let my tears fall freely.  I fear that crying may release a degree of sorrow that no one should have to witness, and yet I cannot bear the thought of being alone in such grief. The only one who could withstand such weeping, provide comfort, and subsequently treat me the same as always, would have been Thorbert.

Today, I will think about how Thorbert sometimes used to lie upside-down when he was very relaxed.  It never failed to bring a smile to my face.  Good boy, Thorbert. 

Cry

Herself speaks once more.

After I received ottoman-shaped dog's diagnosis a few months ago, I had plenty of time to mentally prepare myself for yesterday morning - knowing that Thorbert would eventually hit a medical crisis that would necessitate The End. It was clearly time yesterday, and because I had kept an eye on him so tightly, he had hardly any discomfort right up to the end. I'm glad for that, and relieved.

What I didn't prepare myself for, though, was what it would be like after he was gone. We had him for nearly 10 years, and because I've been telecommuting for even longer than that, he was my constant companion for essentially an entire decade. He made sure I got up promptly in the morning to enjoy breakfast and the cool morning air. He'd lie in my study when I was working, sit on the couch with me when I read a book or took a nap, and follow me around when I did chores. He was my sous-chef in the kitchen -- he'd come running if he heard the sound of the knife on the cutting board.  He curled up with me in my sleeping bag those cold nights when we went camping.  He'd rest on the couch when I used my elliptical trainer, and sleep at the foot of the bed near me at night -- unless Beloved Husband was away, in which case he would delightedly ensconce himself right next to me on Husband's pillow.  He stayed by my side whenever I was sick or sad, offering silent and beautiful comfort. And, of course, he waited right by the front door for me whenever I left the house. 

He was ALWAYS here. 

Now there is this ottoman-shaped-dog-shaped void where he once was, and I have to learn to go about my daily life without his company. I never thought about how it would be to do so. I suppose I'm glad I didn't, though, because to try to anticipate or imagine his absence would have yielded a degree of sorrow that would have been both frightening and nearly impossible to withstand.  And now, it is here:  a nauseating grief that washes over me in salty ocean waves. A wordless roar of loss. 

Faithful, beloved dog.  His unquestioning devotion to me brought me tremendous joy and also broke my heart, every single day. Was I worthy of his affection, his adoration, his attachment?  I don't think anyone can be worthy of such love.  I tried my hardest, though. I hope he knew. 

Humble, devoted, beautiful-hearted Thorbert. I will always remember the love you so freely gave to me. Thank you.

Godspeed.

Do not surrender your grief so quickly
Let it cut more deeply
Let it ferment and season you
As few human or divine ingredients can
Something is missing in my heart tonight
That has made my eyes so soft
And my voice so tender
And my need of God so absolutely clear.

- Hafiz

Godspeed, My Dog Hero

We turn the blog over to Herself today. 

Ottoman-shaped dog had a difficult day yesterday, followed by a very rough night last night.  This morning, it was clear that because of the bladder tumor, he had developed a blockage.  He couldn't urinate.

These past few months since his diagnosis, we have been watching him, waiting for signs, worrying about the progression of his illness and about his comfort.  He would have a bad day, and we would think, "Now?" And then he would bounce back, so it was clear that it was not Now.

It was clear, though, that today was Now.

You are at rest now, Thorbert, with no more pills or needles.  No more anxiety, no more fears.  I hope that somewhere, somehow, you are now free to have all the snackies you would like, to pee happily on every bush you pass, to sniff and run bark and lie on cushions and be joyful once more.

Godspeed, Thorbert.  You were the very best dog I could ever have -- unrelentingly cheerful, devoted, and loving.  You would rest by my side when I was sick, be silently and comfortingly present when I was sad, and wait patiently by the front door for my return whenever I left the house.  You were unconditional love wrapped in an ottoman-shaped dog body.  Thank you for your time with us.