Multiple Stages of Grief

I know some people find ludicrous the grief others experience over the loss of their pets. What they must not realize is how entwined one's life becomes with a pet. Multiple daily walks and feeding, brushing, washing, playing with them, patting them... They become your focus. You control their life and as a good dog owner, you are involved on an intimate level keeping them healthy, happy and engaged.

When Lucy was diagnosed with cancer a mere two weeks ago, that focus became quadrupled. Her care and comfort took on a whole new meaning and also became (unconsciously) a period in which to say goodbye and let her know how much we loved her. Knowing we were going to be the final arbitrator of her life was a struggle. At some point, all pet owners must come to grips with this. However, when she exhibited so much discomfort Monday evening, it was a quick decision—she let us know it was time and took the decision making on herself. Yes, I know, we made the call, but she made it abundantly clear she was miserable. There was little debate about what we had to do. Only for the briefest second did I doubt myself and that of course was because of the grief over losing her.

The next day I started cleaning up her things and was going to give away or toss most of it. (Not her collar; that I'll keep.) But I realized that was also grief talking—that somehow, by removing any sign of her, the grief would also disappear. Her food, her toys, some of her hiking paraphernalia, sure, others may be able to use them, but I don't need to get rid of everything. Not her beds, not her leashes, not her dog bag. Eventually we'll have another dog in the house.

I mentioned hearing her bark yesterday in the wee hours of the morning. Last night I dreamed that they'd made a mistake and Lucy was just fine and still with us. Another stage of grief: reversing the outcome. I wonder how many stages we'll go through?

I wrote my niece and told her that I was catching myself in the habits I'd accrued through my life with Lucy. Returning from work, any water left in my bottle, I'd pour in her water bowl. While making salads, any little pieces of vegetable she liked, I'd give her a scrap. I kept all the used plastic veggie bags for collection on dog walks and now what do I do with them? I hear her coming down the hall. I hear her old snorfely nose. I reach down to pat her or turn my head to see if she's in one of her many beds, but there is no Lucy to receive a pat. There is no water bowl, no beds. This is surely the most difficult stage of grieving—habit versus reality. I am constantly reminded of our loss.