Two days ago, on what was otherwise a beautiful Sunday
morning, I had to say good-bye to my beloved dog, Bailey. Not a pleasant way to
start a blog post, but stay with me—it does get better. This is the fourth time
I have lost a pet, but due to unfortunate circumstances with my other puppies
(and yes, no matter their age, to me they are always pups), this was the first
time I was able to be with my girl when she passed. She had cancer, and it had
gotten very difficult for her to breathe. When she was sedated and fell asleep,
for the first time in many, many days, she was breathing perfectly
normally. It was so wonderful to see
that. Then, in maybe about a half minute
later, her breathing stopped, and we said are final good-byes.
Yeah, I know. You are probably thinking, where is the gets
better part? It happened when I got home, and it has to do with my grandmother,
one of the main characters in my next novel, A Life Well Loved. You see, when I
got home, the first thing I wanted to do, needed to do, is put all traces of
Bailey away. I put away her food and
water bowls, her bed. Threw out the rest of her dog food. There weren’t any
toys to put away. Bailey was a recliner, meaning she wasn’t one to play with toys or even play that much.
She enjoyed being lazy other than a game of chase, a walk, or exploring the
back yard. But I didn’t want to see a
bowl full of water that would never be splashed again from her being such a
sloppy drinker or the box of Frosty Paws in the freezer that would never get
eaten. With all of those things put
away, now all I see are the memories.
Now, the quiet in this house is not quite as sad.
My Bailey
My Bailey
On the day my grandfather died back in 1968, my grandmother
came home from the hospital and immediately started to pack up his things. She would ask us if there was something we
wanted of his to keep. Otherwise, it went into the donation box or was thrown
away. For years I would wonder why she
did that or how she could just be rid of what was grandpa’s life so easily and
quickly. There were times I even felt anger towards her because of her actions.
I never told her that, and I never asked her why. I simply believed it was her
way to grieve, because that is something so personal to everyone, and there is
no right or wrong way to get through the loss of a loved one.
Now, after almost 47 years, I got it. I actually got it! She
did that, not to forget the love of her life. She did that because she didn’t
want to see the clothes he would never wear again, the tools from his workshop
that would forever remain quiet, never to build another shelf or toy for a
grandchild, the pipes he would never smoke again. She didn’t need to see those
things laying around unused. As she emptied her home of the physical being that
made up Harry Limric, she now had all those memories of over 59 years of
marriage. Now she could hear those workshop tools whenever she wanted or smell
the tobacco from his pipe. When I
removed all the things that were a part of my Bailey, I understood. I
completely understood. No, it doesn’t take away the pain, but it makes it so
much easier to hold those memories. And it does make the break in my heart a
little smaller. Who would have thought that a 3-month-old puppy rescued from a
shelter and who gave us 12 years of pure joy and laughter would have brought
such clarity to something I could never understand before. Right now, my house is too quiet. I think I’ll
go out to the back yard and remember the fun Bailey had chasing after the tiny
lizards she could never catch or reassuring me she wasn’t going to fall in the fountain.
