More Millie-isms

Last night I had one of the most heart-wrenching semi-dreams.  As I have described in previous posts, Millie and I cuddled all night every night, but occasionally I would wake up because she had positioned herself with her body perpendicular to mine, typically with her scratchy little back feet pressing into my back.  Just not a comfortable position.  So I would wake up and gently move her body parallel to mine.  She would wake up, roll onto her back with a big snore, and we would snuggle back to sleep.  Now, for those who don't know, I found out I have a weird kind of sleep apnea that only occurs when I sleep on my back, so I sleep with this weird thing strapped to my back to prevent my from rolling onto my back while I sleep.  Last night at some point this thing came loose just enough for me to roll around and wake up with it in just the position Millie would wake me up in, and I genuinely thought for a minute that it was her and went to gently move my sleep apnea thing back into an appropriate spooning position.  Fortunately, when reality sunk in, I just threw the damn thing on the floor and went back to sleep immediately, instead of coming all the way awake to have a good cry.

This all reminded me of my intention to write more about Millie than I've done lately, so here are a few of her silly bits:

Millie-ism #1,108:  What's that tail doing?
Millie hated her tail.  Compared to many pugs, her tail was curled fairly tightly, so it looked quite a bit like I funny cinnamon roll on her back.  Just one of the many features of the breed that are, really, just funny deformities.  As a result, nearly everyone wanted to poke it, wiggle it, unroll it, examine it.  I don't think it hurt her or was really uncomfortable, but it definitely felt strange to her; I'm not sure she realized her tail was part of her own body.  As a puppy she once bit it hard enough to make herself cry out.  Eventually, all you had to say was "Millie, what's that tail doing?" and she would try to whip around to check it out--quite difficult when you are shaped like a burrito--and when she realized there was a weird cinnamon roll sitting on her back, she would make quite a fuss growling and trying to get to it.  At some point I realized that she really did genuinely hate that thing, and I had to make a deal with her that I would never mention it or let other people mess with it.  But she continued to worry when you started to say something about anything that started with a T.  Sometimes I would catch myself saying "Look at this tum--I mean belly."

Millie-ism #429:  I love you so lunch.
Millie was one of those dogs who is really good at picking up words.  Especially words that had anything to do with food (which includes 'Gramma'), or words that sounded like other words that had anything to do with food.  She had a very large vocabulary, although distinctions between words was not her strong suit.  At some point she started to think the word 'much' was 'lunch'.  This was troublesome, as I often felt compelled to say "I love you so much."  I had to train myself to say "I love you so--really a lot."  I think it took me about six months to realize that I can say "I love you so much" to Ruby.  She's not so good with words.

Sing-Along

I'm convinced.  March 3rd will always be the worst day of mourning.  I thought I was doing fine until 15 minutes after my responsibilities for the day were complete.  Before I was technically off campus I was bawling.  I think the 4th will be a more reflective day, and I hope to do a lot of writing tomorrow.  I haven't written much lately, and there is a lot I want to put on record.  I am more thankful than I would have predicated to have, from the beginning, recorded this whole miserable process.  I am committed to embracing my grief as the only way to pay respects to Millie.  But it's hard to let all these feelings wash over me and consume me.  Having a record of my grief helps me get in touch with it all when I have time and space to do so.

For now, I simply want to put forth some song lyrics.  It is admittedly a bit juvenile to rely on another person's songs to express myself, but I'm no poet, nor am I even much of a poetry reader.  But I am a song listener, and I am quite skilled at reinterpreting songs so that they are obviously about Millie and me.  In an earlier post I compiled a playlist of songs I used to sing to Millie.  Soon I hope to compile a list of the songs that have really gripped me in my grieving process.  But, for now, here are the lyrics for what I think have been the two most important songs in this process.

White Lexus (Mike Doughty)
Please show me how to live.
Please show me how to have a day.
I don't want to wake up now.
Why do I have to wake up, anyway?

Like a soap star in anguish,
shrill but bland.
When your white Lexus comes
around the way,
idling in a long driveway.
Try to feel nothing on command.
When your white Lexus comes,
the thrill be damned.

I forgive the world right now.
Still I play the chump's role every time.
My world's the surface of the moon.
My heart's down in a diamond mine.

Like the black stars of Memphis,
moaning on.
When your white Lexus comes
to drive me out,
drive me to the edge of town.
Try to feel nothing on command.
When your white Lexus comes,
the thrill be damned,
damn it to the last damned man.
When your white Lexus comes.

What could this possibly be about besides a plea to anything and everything that might offer strength, comfort, or guidance in the face of earth-shattering grief for a beloved puglet?

How Can I Tell You (Cat Stevens)
How can I tell you that I love you?
I love you.
But I can't think of right words to say.
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you.
I'm always thinking of you,
but my words just blow away.
Just blow away.
It always ends up to one thing, honey,
and I can't think of right words to say.

Wherever I am, girl,
I'm always walking with you.
I'm always walking with you,
but I look, and you're not there.
And whoever I'm with,
I'm always talking to you.
I'm always talking to you,
and I'm sad that you can't hear.
I'm sad that you can't hear.
It always ends up to one thing, honey,
when I look, and you're not there.

I need to know you,
need to feel my arms around you.
Feel my arms you,
like sea around a shore.
Each night and day I pray
and hope that I might find you.
Hope that I might find you,
because hearts can do more.
It always ends up to one thing, honey,
still I kneel upon the floor.

How can I tell you that I love you?
I love you.  I love you,
but I can't think of right words to say.
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you.
I'm always thinking of you.
It always ends up to one thing, honey,
and I can't think I've right words to say.

This song is clearly about a young woman struggling to fully and accurately express her love and grief for a lost pug soul-mate.

March

I hate March.  It seems like March itself creeps up on us, grabs our hearts, and squeezes hard.  And that's on a good year.

10 years ago today we lost Buttercup.
6 years ago on the 14th we lost Dwight.
1 year ago Friday we lost Millie.

For me, this week is all leading up to Thursday.  I want to push aside my grief for Millie until Friday, when I can sequester myself, but even though the anniversary of her death is Friday, I know that all day Thursday I will be thinking that it was a year ago when I last saw her alive.  Friday is the anniversary of what I think will always be one of the worst days of my life.  Thursday is the anniversary of the last time my life felt normal.

But I've been thinking a lot about Buttercup today too.  She was just such a good dog.  Such a good heart.  I am surprised and saddened that, in all honesty, I remember so few details.  But I offer my thanks to her.  For making me a dog person.  Living so closely with her from the age of 5 to 18, from before I could read until I starting dedicating far too much of my life to reading, I know she had no small impact on the person I have become even after her death.  She is, without a doubt, why I am the dog lover I am today.  She paved the way for me to love Millie so completely and so devastatingly.

And although Ruby is not much like any other creature the world has ever known :) she is more like Buttercup than Millie.  At one point, maybe a couple of years after Buttercup died, I was able to process my grief by realizing that I could continue loving Buttercup by loving other dogs.  My relationship with Buttercup didn't have to end because I could go on putting my love for her out into the world.  I realized that, in loving dogs, caring for them with the most steadfast dedication, I honor Buttercup.  I'm not ready for that realization with Millie; my love for Millie is still for no one and nothing but Millie.  Honoring her by loving anyone else just feels...piddly.  I can't help but cling to my love for Millie because it's all I have left.  But I can recognize and remember that I pay respects to my relationship with Buttercup through my love for Ruby.

10

This weekend (1/22) would have been Millie's tenth birthday.  I thought about it a lot last week, but when the actual day came, I couldn't think about it much.  I want to always celebrate her life, above all else, on her birthday; I'll have no choice but to remember her death on that anniversary.  But I'm not yet at the point where I can really think about her life without thinking about her death and just how empty I feel without her.  I don't want her birthday to be about that.  So I ended up putting it out of my head as much as I could on Saturday.  Upon reflection, though, I do wish I'd eaten a banana for her.

Mostly, all I've been able to think about regarding her birthday is how unreal it is that one year ago she was still here and we were blissfully ignorant that we had less than two months left together in this world.  That, and how short nine years is.

I miss you constantly, babygirl.  Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Soundtrack to Millie, vol I: in Life

In one of my earliest posts I wrote about how hard it was to listen to almost anything in my music collection.  Millie and I had many special songs, and I haven't been able to listen to those yet.  But I don't want to forget them, so I'm writing them down here.  Even better, I've made a playlist you can (I think) listen to here:  Soundtrack to Millie, vol. I: in Life.  This playlist does not include "I Need You Like a Donut Needs a Hole," as I could not find it on the website.

1.  "Gimme Some Lovin'" by G. Love.  This one, I imagine, captures Millie's perspective when we woke up each morning.  Just replace any sexual connotations with cuddling and breakfast, of course.
2.  "Gotta Have You" by the Weepies.
3.  "Such Great Heights" by the Postal Service, but especially the Iron and Wine version.  Yeah, Laila and Shayne danced to it at their wedding, but I still maintain that it is about Millie and me.
4 and 5.  "I Need You Like a Donut Needs a Hole" and "All I Want is You" by Barry Louis Polisar.
6.  "Be Without You" by Mary J. Blige.
7.  "Anyone Else but You" by the Moldy Peaches.
8.  "Bananas and Blow" by Ween.  So it's not really about Millie and me, but it showed that Millie knew the word "bananas" and not just the tone of voice in which it was usually said.
9.  "Funny Little Frog" by Belle and Sebastian.
10.  "Parentheses" by Blow.
11.  "Sea of Love" by Cat Power, and whoever originally wrote/sang it.

There a million more, I'm sure, but those topped the charts on a regular basis.  And yes, I am aware that some of these songs are silly ones to sing to a dog.

Spoons

Millie was an intense, insistent, expert cuddler.  I know some people who spent the night with her found it to be too much, since you really could not escape without throwing her out of the room.  But I always loved it, and it is one of the things I miss most viscerally.

Millie and I spooned most nights; it was our preferred cuddling format.  She would often doze on top of the covers at first while I laid on my back reading.  But when the lights went out and I laid on my side to sleep, she would come up to my head.  Since she had no snout, she couldn't effectively nuzzle her way under the covers, so I would lift them up and she would make her way down to the curve between my stomach and my legs.  She would usually sleep with her head on my elbow (my arm bent with my hand at my pillow), or with her head in the curve between my ribcage and my hips.

But that wasn't the full extent of spooning with Millie.  Sometimes in the night I would roll over to sleep on my other side, and Millie would then adjust her position.  She would move up and snuggle high on my back and then sleep with her head draped over my neck.  This was my favorite.  I loved to hear/feel her swallows (if you spend time with happy, relaxed dogs, you know about this kind of contented swallowing) followed by her soft snoring.  Sometimes her rough feet and toenails against my back were a bit scratchy, but the rest of her body was so soft and snuggly that, with just a few adjustments, I felt deeply loved and perfectly comfortable.

The grass is always greener, even in grief.

All of the books I've read so far about grieving for a pet include a section or chapter on dealing with feelings associated with having to put your pet to sleep.  I know people who have had horrible, traumatic experiences with the decision to put a pet to sleep or with the process itself.  I don't mean to suggest that it is easy or preferable.

Still, that is how I always envisioned Millie's death.  It is how the vast majority of my family's pets have passed.  I always thought that at some point Millie would eat something that would make her irrecoverably sick, or that she would develop some other irrecoverable condition naturally, and that I would be faced with that dreaded decision.  But I always thought that the choice would be clear, since it always has been in my experience.  That clarity, knowing that you are truly giving your dear friend a gift, the gift of relief, of peace, is sometimes the only comfort there is.  This was certainly the case with Buttercup.

When you have the opportunity to put a pet to sleep,I think the death itself is less shocking; you know it is imminent before it happens.  You can see it coming, you can say goodbye, even if only in the last hours or even minutes.  Honestly, I am jealous of those who have this precious opportunity.  Millie's death was so shocking. It was like a blast from a cannon that blew me into another world.  A terrible, shitty, stupid world of heartache.

Secondly, when you put a pet to sleep, you have the choice to be present at the moment of death.  This, I know, is traumatic sometimes.  I suspect that it would have been very difficult with Millie, because I suspect she would have fought the sedation.  Still, I think one factor that has made this loss so painful is the sense of distance I have between myself and Millie in her final moments.  I had no idea at all that she was gone until many many hours afterward.  In fact, because she passed in the middle of the night, completely alone, I have no idea exactly what time she died, or even what day!  Because Mom was with Buttercup in her final moments, we know Buttercup's death was peaceful, that she welcomed that gift of peace at last.  But because I was not with Millie when she died--because no one witnessed her final minutes--I have no idea what those minutes were like.  Was she scared?  Did she struggle?  Did she lack comfort she needed?  Was it fast, or was it a long, painful process?  I have no way to answer these questions.  So there is no comfort to be had here.

Lastly, if you have the opportunity to make the choice to put your pet to sleep, if you witness their passing, then I suspect their passing is at least slightly more real.  When I got the news that Millie had died, I knew that it was absolutely critical that I see her body.  I knew that seeing her that way would be horrible, but I also knew that if I did not, her death would never ever be real to me.  It also gave me a chance to say goodbye, even an obscenely late goodbye.  But nonetheless, for a week or so, my heart knew only that she was gone.  I knew not that she was dead, but that she was out there somewhere.  Alone.  This was unbearable.  I don't know how I faced life with the sense that my sweet baby girl was alone.  I don't think I would have had that sense if I had been with her in her final moments.