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.

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.