My dog is dead.
I keep having to remind myself, because everything seems so
normal. I’m drinking water with exactly three ice cubes, I’m wearing my grey-striped
slippers with the fluffy lining, and my diffuser is sending lavender-scented
steam curling into the air. But I’m writing about my dead dog. My Rosie, my
golden doodle, my best friend, one of the few beings I love unconditionally
with No Strings Attached, my family. She’s dead. The moment it happened, I felt
nothing. I knew she was scheduled to be put down at 1:30 pm. That way, we could
let her go in peace before the cancer in her mouth got too bad. (How do you
know when cancer is too bad? It’s certainly never good, never mediocre.) I woke
up with my heart in my throat, breathless and choking on air. “Today is the day
my best friend dies” is a bit melodramatic, but it was my first thought of the day
and it was true and it hurt. It was 10 am, then 11 am, then 12 pm, then 1 pm. I
booked it to class but I couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t stop checking my
phone for any updates, for The Moment. Would I feel it? Would I just ~know~? It
was 1:15, then 1:30, then 2 pm and I hadn’t heard anything. I felt like my
entire body was a coke can and the world was shaking me up. But how do you ask
your family, “Have they killed our dog yet?” I texted my sister “Is it done”
and nothing more. At 2:06 pm, she responded, “yes”. At 2:08 pm, my mom texted
me. “Baruch Dayan HaEmet.” Blessed is the true Judge. But I felt nothing. After
a day of pre-mourning, of shaking and praying and near-tears, I was numb. I wrote
a few paragraphs for an essay, made some Asian-style meatballs, and sang along
to Hamilton. After about two hours of Netflix, I headed back into my room. And then
suddenly all the oxygen was gone and I was on the ground sobbing, sobbing, curled
face down on the carpet, shaking and clenching my fists. Because what the hell
am I supposed to do without Rosie? If I love an animal that much how do they
have the nerve to get cancer twice? How dare she age, how dare she die? It felt
like my heart and lungs were being squeezed, everything hurt, but then it just
stopped. I brushed myself off, stood up, and went on with my day. My dog is dead
and it seems as though heartbreak is coming along in small packages, neatly
tied in mourning black. Maybe this is super meaningful, and shows that God only
gives us what we can handle. Maybe the bursts of sunshine in between my dark
places show that despite everything, life is so beautiful. Maybe it shows that humans
desperately crave symbolic meaning in everything, because if it’s not
significant or beautifully phrased, I’m technically an anxious, twitchy little
stressball who cries about once or twice a day over her recently deceased dog. Hell
if I know. I’m only twenty and am going through the stages of grief, so I can’t
possibly come to a neat and logical conclusion. There is none. Of course I’m
glad my best friend left this world peacefully, before cancer made her suffer. And
I am so thankful she was in my life, starting as a hyperactive, bad at bladder
control, tail-wagging piece of fluff. I’d love to say that every time I come
crashing breathless and sobbing onto my carpet, I’ll thank whoever is “up there”
for the opportunity to have had such a fluffy little blessing in my life. But grief
doesn’t work that way. Heartbreak isn’t romantic, it hurts and it’s messy and
when you end up crying, you’re trying to figure out how to breathe. Not having
some Precious Grateful Moment. I guess I’ll just let my pain be pain, treat it
when respect when it comes and not mask it in something that looks and sounds
prettier. My dog Rosie died yesterday. There is nothing beautiful about that. But
my leftover meatballs tasted great, and I just saw a great play, and my nails
are the perfect shade of emerald green. I’m hurting so badly. But my friend
gave me a great hug today. Small packages. Let the unwrapping begin.
