She's not my blanky.

I've been reading several books on grieving for a lost pet. If you ever lose a pet and consider reading "Saying Goodbye to the Pet You Love" by Lorri Greene, skip it.

On p. 16, she says "Think back to when you were a child. You probably had many toys, but maybe you remember a special one...Remember Linus, from the comic strip Peanuts? He clung to his beloved blanket tenaciously and he panicked whenever he was separated from it, even briefly. His blanket gave him the comfort he needed to deal with the daily challenges of childhood. That feeling of attachment to a cherished toy or an object you had as a child can be experienced as an adult, too, as the feeling of attachment you have for your companion animals." Seriously? I don't think I need to explain any further why this is an extreme misunderstanding of the pet-human bond.

Most of the grief books I'm reading caution you against making big decisions, like getting a puppy, right away. This doesn't surprise me. What does surprise me is how important it is to me to have a new puppy so quickly after this kind of loss. I got Millie about eight days after Buttercup died. I got Ruby two days after Millie died. I would have got Ruby the very same day, but she was not quite ready for adoption.

This choice to get a new puppy seems to be misunderstood. I think some people worry that it is a desperate act to put a bandaid on a punctured artery, an attempt to either distract myself from my grief, or somehow replace Millie, or both. And I think almost everyone else thinks it is an indication that I've moved on and must therefore be fine. Someone said, the first time I saw him after Millie died, "I'm so sorry to hear about Millie. But the new one sure looks cute!" (he had seen pictures on facebook). I know what he meant, and he certainly meant to be comforting, and I appreciate that people even acknowledge the loss at all. But still...it's an example of how clumsy we are about death and grief. Sort of like "Hey, sorry you crashed your old car. But hey, now you can get an awesome new one."

So why did I get Ruby so soon? She is the only thing that can possibly make this whole nightmare seem real. As my mom said, she wouldn't be here if Millie was coming back. It's a hard reality, but it's one I have to face. In the two days before I got Ruby, I thought about whether or not I should wait, and I thought about my grief process if I waited. I realized that it would take months or longer to move out of the phase where I have to set aside hours every day for wailing. I don't know when, if ever, it would seem real. I think I would come to hate poor Darla for always being the only one to come to the door to greet me when I got home. So no, Ruby's no distraction. She's a reminder every minute that I can't go back in time. She tells me that I have a future, and I better follow her to get to it.

Transitions

It's certainly no surprise, but it's so different with Ruby.

When Buttercup died, it was like losing a sister. As I think I mentioned in a previous blog, we got Buttercup when I was about five, and she died when I was 19. So I, literally, grew up with her. Everyone in the family was deeply bonded with Buttercup and, I think, equally so.

Buttercup died fairly suddenly. Literally overnight, she went from being perfectly youthful and healthy to having constant seizures, and we had to have her put down after a few days. In the fog of that grief, it took me eight days to decide I needed a puppy, research breeds, decide I needed (not just wanted) a female fawn pug, and track one down. It wasn't easy. I finally found a woman in Kansas who had a litter. Dan and I drove out to get one. Because they had a messy, snowy, muddy driveway, the woman met us at a street near the highway. She knew I wanted a fawn female, and she brought only one: Millie. I will never forget how my heart just melted when the woman handed this little bundle of sleepy puppy sweetness to me. She was about the size (and general shape) of a Chipotle burrito, maybe a little smaller. Ridiculous. She wasn't quite eight weeks old, and her personality was just beginning to form. She was so tired, it seems like it took her weeks to begin playing. She was so tiny, her toenails got stuck in the carpet. She seemed like a freak of nature. When Adreanne first met her, she turned this little ball of puppy-dough around in her hand, with a look that said, "Seriously? What the hell IS this thing?"

Our first night together, I was afraid I might roll over and squish her. But there was no doubt in my mind that we needed to be together. I needed her, the ache of missing Buttercup filled my heart to the brim. Life seemed to be changing so fast. At some point in the night, she fell off the bed, and it woke me up. I peered down at her, and she peered up at me. We were both so awed by the way life had thrown us together. I scooped her up and she draped her tiny body over my neck and we fell back to sleep. Because Buttercup was never that ridiculously cuddly and babyish, Millie filled a part of my heart that hadn't been there before. I don't feel like there is a hole in my heart. I feel like my whole heart is gone.

This transition with Ruby is nothing like my first few weeks with Millie. I love Ruby, and she loves me, but we are still working a few things out. She's learning the routine. I know that we are well on our way to a deep bond, but it will take longer to develop than it did with Millie. I knew Millie and I were a close fit, but my new life with Ruby is showing me just how close we were. Sometimes it simply amazes me, to know that this pain I feel now is the counterpart to the love we shared. But mostly it just crushes me to realize that what we shared is gone. It doesn't seem possible. I just want her back. Desperately.

Road Trip

Today Ruby and I drove up to Boulder Creek to visit Laila & Co. I think a little Levi therapy will do me good.

The drive wasn't easy. It's hard to sit still for five hours with my thoughts and emotions. For one thing, I've been having trouble finding music that I can listen to, which is a must-have for driving. At one point or another over the last nine years, I think I've sung just about every love song I've ever heard to Millie. Everything from the Weepies' "Gotta Have You" to Jay-Z's "Show Me What You Got." I'm not sure I'll ever be able to listen to G. Love's "Gimme Some Lovin'" again. So love songs, those about having it or losing it, are off limits. So are happy songs or silly songs of all sorts. What does that leave me with? It has to be vaguely angry and bitter, but there must be no explicit explanation.

What's worse, Millie and I took a lot of road trips together. Road trips were at the top of both lists: times I enjoyed Millie the most, and times she annoyed me the most. She was a bizarre freak in the car. Above about 40mph, she was passed out asleep, usually in my lap. As a world champion cuddler, she curled up in my lap and rested her head in the crook of my left arm. Occasionally I would glance down at her squishy little face. As dangerous as it probably was, it was prime cuddling time. But slow the car down, put on the turn signal, or do anything suggesting you might stop soon, and all hell would break loose. This would unleash all the anxious fury Millie's 20lb body could muster, which was quite a lot. I'll never really know where all that car anxiety came from. She and I would spend almost all of a road trip cuddling, her gazing up at me so sweetly, but after the stoplights and turns in the final 15 minutes of a road trip, I would always arrive at home just about ready to throw her out the window.

Ruby did very well in the car.

The smad phase.

I'm both sad and mad literally all of the time. Well, not quite. Occasionally I'm numb, and occasionally I'm numb enough to the pain that I feel some pleasure in watching Ruby romp and play and grow. It's a pleasure from which I feel oddly detached, like I'm watching someone else feel it, since it's so faint that I can't imagine it is really me who feels it.

It's been about two weeks now. I suspect a lot of people think I should be doing fine. After all, I have a puppy. What kind of person isn't happy if she has a puppy? Well, I'm not happy. The first few days, I spent large chunks of time in bed wailing. Not crying, not even sobbing, but wailing. I'm past that point at least, but I still have to remind myself to eat, and sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. I've had to change the kind of mascara I use, because the kind I used to use turns me into Tammy Faye Baker when I cry. And not only do I feel like I could cry at any minute of the day, but the heartache is so strong that I also feel like I could vomit at any moment of the day.

Adreanne told me that when a nurse she works with recently lost her dog, she went about doing her job while crying all day. Not stepping out from time to time to cry, but simply crying freely as she did her job. I think that's a great idea. But so far, I can't simply cry. When I cry, it's not a matter of tears falling, some sniffles, or even a few sobs. It is full-on wailing. I don't suppose I can go around doing that while I attend classes, ride the bus, study in coffee shops, etc.

I am so angry. It's an unfocused anger, or perhaps just incredible irritability. I didn't expect this aspect of my grief. I know it doesn't make sense to be mad at anyone for Millie's death; it was no one's fault. And I don't. So instead I just feel a wide-spread and general rage at everyone for everything they say or do.

The thought that dominates my mind throughout every day is how I wish I was dead. Honestly, I would rather be dead than feel this way. That's not to say I'm suicidal or that there is any cause for concern. I would rather go on living and feeling this way than impose this terrible burden on my family and friends.

But still. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Biography

In high school, I had to write an autobiography. Without realizing it, I organized by life story not by years but by pets. To name a few, there was the Bufo Era, the Muppet-and-Snickers Era, the Buddy Era, followed too soon by the Tucker Era, and these were all parts of the great Buttercup Era.

Now the Miss Millie May Wigglesworth Era has come to an end, and the Ruby Applesauce Era has begun.

I've decided to write about this process for several reasons. Primarily, I'm simply compelled to express my feelings. I can't or won't talk about it with most people in my life, and I suspect most people think I'm okay, or will be soon. But I'm not, and I won't be. And if anyone is curious enough to bother reading this, I want them to know it. Moreover, I can't find any way to ease this heartache, so I'm trying anything I can think of.

I see grief coming in two stages. The first comes quickly, like a goddamn Mack truck, beginning the moment you get the news. This is the stage when you feel, for at least 45 our of every 60 minutes, as though you are being crushed. You physically crave and expect to find that person you have lost. Somehow, eventually, you come out of this stage and become "okay" again and, eventually, even genuinely happy. But this is when the second stage of grief begins, and it lasts for the rest of your life. In this stage you are aware, although thankfully not all the time, that your memories of that person are slowly slipping away. You are gradually losing the only link yo have to your loved one. My second motivation for this blog is to preserve my memories of Millie, although I think it will be quite a while before I can even think, much less write, about these memories.

The relationship between a human and a pet is unique. It is unlike any relationship we have with our fellow humans, as far as I can tell. I was with Millie the vast majority of the time for the last nine years. She followed me from room to room when I was home. She slept snuggled up close to me for over 3,000 nights. She was a perpetual baby who needed me and loved me more than anyone in the world. There is not a single human with whom I could tolerate this closeness, but I would have it no other way with Millie. Because the human-pet relationship is so unique, the process of grieving a pet is unique too. It's a process that is poorly understood in our culture. In a million little ways, people in your life will invalidate your grief, expecting you to get over it and move on. If anyone who has lost a pet reads this and finds their feelings validated, I hope it helps.