Mourning in Small Packages

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.