Clara left this world on September 28, 2024, four years to the day after Zani. I’m not ready to write a tribute to him yet. But maybe my thoughts about grief and mourning might help someone else. This post is more raw and less edited than I usually publish. I wrote most of it the day he died.
When Cricket died, I dismantled his doggie dementia setup that very day. The old pen, the carefully placed dog beds, his food station, all the yoga mats and rugs and bath mats for traction. I washed a lot. I took Summer’s cage to my bed; that was the only way Summer could be with the group at night and Cricket would still be safe. Summer liked having her privacy, but I’d rather have my bed back. He continued to sleep in the cage, with the door open, in the corner of the room where I had moved it.
I don’t feel guilty about making these changes. I have never felt that I have “erased” Cricket in my life. He made a permanent imprint.
I believe it is right to get rid of things, to relieve the stress of caring if it is there, to feel joy again after the loss. You have not betrayed your dog or their memory. We all do things differently, but it saddens me when I come across people who are overcome with guilt over moving or disposing of pet-related items they’ve lost.
It was difficult for Clara, because suddenly. I, always ready, was not ready for this. I went through anticipatory grief when he turned 11, then 12. At 13 I began to glide, to ignore his continued health. He seems very healthy, although Cushing’s is borderline. We walked every day at least half a mile, until the night before we said goodbye. His walk was his favorite part of the day. His last one was in the light rain, which he loved.
When hemangiosarcoma overtook us, I had less than 18 hours with Summer. I had about 5 minutes with Clara before she passed. This is my choice; he is suffering.
When I got home, I started thinking about the triggers of sadness through the lens of behavioral science. My companion took Clara’s bowl from its place in the kitchen. I noticed him and thanked him. I try to keep our activities for the other dogs. When I was ready to walk them, in order of seniority, little Choo Choo first, I opened the broom and leash closet and reached for Clara’s harness on its peg. I actually held it before I remember. Clara was the first to walk for three and a half years. A wave of pain came. In terms of behavioral science, I suffer from the worst kind of sudden extinction. Death of a loved one. Seeing the harness was the signal for a long sequence of behavior that began with picking up Clara, then loading my own gear, then taking her on her walk, almost her greatest joy in life . None of this will happen. Ever.
I began to be thoughtful about these hints, these reminders. They are not technically cues for sadness. They are cues for behaviors that can no longer be performed, happy interactions that are not available in this world. And the collision against the non-existence, the absence, causes sadness. When I finished walking Choo Choo, then Lewis, I made up my mind. I opened the closet, pulled Clara’s harness off that particular peg one last time, and went and put it in a drawer. Then I put Lewis’ harness on the peg. It used to have no place in that closet. Now it happened. Hopefully, the next time I run in Clara’s harness in a different location and context, the sweet memory will be stronger than the stab in the heart, the pain in my gut.
I will never forget Clara. I don’t need that specific reminder, a visual cue that that reinforcement will never happen again. I will think of his walks with joy, remembering the details. But then again, I don’t need the harness hanging from that peg.
I made a different choice with his collar. I put it on my bed where he sleeps. Slept. I thought it might be a relief for Lewis. Who knows, really. Maybe he’s confused, or something. But Clara’s collar on the bed is not a visual cue for me for a past behavior or sequence. I usually take it off after we go to bed. It lifts my spirits quite a bit, which is where it is right now. (Note: the lifting of spirits is short-lived. The collar is a crazy stand-in.)
I’ve made different decisions over the years. The day my little mouse Gabriel died, at home, of a possible pulmonary embolism, he threw up first on his ramp to bed. In his honor, that day, I cleaned the ramp and replaced the porous traction surface with a new one. No one else needed the ramp at the time, but it stayed. I also went around the house and looked for his fur. I have three ginger-and-white tabby cats and one black cat, so Gabriel’s sable hairs are unique in the house. I picked up many of them and kept them for a long time in a small bag.
The sentence hurts me to write. I don’t know where the little fur bag is. That was in the distant past. I don’t want Clara to go to the past. He said he was here WITH ME. my puppy A dog I raised and loved from a baby to adulthood. I have never, since 2011, his entire life, been apart from him for more than six or seven hours.
One clue I couldn’t change was getting up from the table and walking to my room. My movement was a signal to Clara, who then hugged me. Almost every time I walk to the back of the house, if I leave the dog gate open, Clara will walk down the hall and into my bedroom. His behavior of getting up to follow was the signal for me to stop and look for him after I opened the gate. He likes to be in the room, especially in the bed. I used to joke that he would be happy if we just lived there. I know I will look for him over my shoulder and chase me for a very long time.
A few years ago I had a little feral cat, Arabella. She had mammary cancer. He had a tumor or lymph node in his neck that burst and bled before I killed him. (I kept her on this earth longer than I should have.) There was Arabella’s blood splattered on the doorframe of my study that had been there for 16 years and I didn’t want to clean it. I still need and want that reminder. So I have weird little shrines. I know it’s weird, but that one doesn’t scare me.
Tonight before we go to bed, we have “peanut butter time” for the dogs, as usual. I started giving out a nightly glob of chunky peanut butter to all the dogs years ago because it was handy when one of them needed to take pills. Clara has been using celegeline for about six months now. No one else takes the pill, but I will continue the tradition. But, I’ll also take his pill box off the counter to get rid of that little visual cue and the pain it triggers when I walk by. The peanut butter routine itself is full of Clara, anyway. He is always first to his seat and waits the longest. He likes peanut butter almost as much as spray cheese. I offered his ghost a little lick tonight. None of the other dogs took his place.
People often make small altars. maybe me A picture, his ashes. GOD IS HIS ASHES. I WAS WITH HIM LAST NIGHT, THEIR MORNING. ASH??? Ash is annoying. But pictures are a comfort, as well as memories.
Clara is so in my life that there are very few things in the house that are “hers.” It’s all ours. He doesn’t have a common place to hang out in a common place; he has at least five. He no longer has a favorite lie-toy, although he does share chew toys with Lewis. The things he likes, the cardboard and his rubber balls, are not safe for free access.
Oh, his balls. His beloved balls. I sent them out. He chews on them and sometimes eats pieces if I’m not fast enough. Even as a senior, he still likes to play with the ball, though he starts to favor it a short time after I let him chew on one. They were bitten for 12 years. They will go over his ash box, if I can bear to stop it. Ashes don’t give me comfort, they annoy me. But still I could not order them.
I’m now lying in bed but I turned off the light and trying to sleep. Another sad first. Lewis was very subdued all day, the most subdued I’ve ever seen him. He was hunched over the bed, his “place.” The place I taught him to live instead of fighting with Clara. But he probably got into the crook of my legs after I turned off the light and sat next to me. I hope he does.
Then the household faces tomorrow together, pricking our fingers for clues for things that might not happen, and taking on new tasks. New tasks do not spoil Clara. There is no chance, ever, of losing him from my heart.
Copyright 2024 Eileen Anderson
