Reading time ~ 2 minutes.
After Walter was diagnosed with lymphoma, I tried not to let this turn into a dog cancer blog. Even though his illness was our focus, I did my best to generalize what I wrote about the experience. Now that he’s gone I’ll try to do the same and not dwell (too long) on the pain of pet loss. But grief is universal, and as much as I wish it were otherwise, there’s no escaping this is our current reality. I’ve said before that writing is often how I sort things out. Bear with me, because I have some sorting to do.
Walter was the 5th furry family member we’ve helped transition from earthly form, but it’s been awhile since we lost our prodigal cat, Chester, in 2014. And memory is kind. We’d mostly forgotten how hard it is to let go of a warm, loving presence and be left in the stark, energetic void of their absence. Everything reminds us they’re no longer here. Walter’s leash is sitting by the back door.
Our memories of Barney, Chester, Tucker, and Spike are happy ones now. I wonder what it takes for that shift to occur—when do the endearing traits and quirky behaviors that make me sad to think about, knowing I’ll never witness them again, become touchpoints of joy in remembering? Is there a requisite number of days or specific volume of tears necessary to reach that stage?
Walter would have been 8 on December 17th. Over 7 years and nearly 9 months, roughly 2824 days, we established our routines—morning walks and evening sniffaris, meals twice a day with treats in between, playing ball in the back yard, “find it” in the attic, chasing his chicken in the kitchen after dinner, wishing him sweet dreams as he curled himself into bed. Tens of thousands of times, we stroked his head or scritched his chin or arrived home to a happy dance greeting.
Walter was smart and good in the way of an intuitive animal. It rains a lot in the Pacific Northwest, which means there were also thousands of opportunities to wipe wet paws. Without being trained, he learned to lift each foot and hold it in the air as we toweled it off. When I started studying acupuncture last fall, I would massage different points while I dried his paws, thanking them for carrying him on our jaunty walks and sprinting at squirrels who entered the yard.
I’ve heard the difference between routine and ritual is the attitude behind the action. After Walter got sick, many of our daily routines took on a more ritual-like quality. Meals were unpredictable and prolonged due to fluctuations in his appetite. The times he devoured his food (which we took for granted while he was healthy) were cause for celebration. Even the unpleasant task of picking up poo was a triumph whenever the substance was, in fact, “pickupable.”
Now we are without our routines. Theo captured it well when she said: “Walter set the rhythm of our days.” It is jarring to be off beat.
I believe one of the lessons I am to learn (and have a long way to go to integrate) is that sacredness does not require the specter of a deadly disease. Thomas Merton said, “The sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer…”
I know we will find ways to smooth the gaps. We have no choice. We will create new rituals and settle into a different cadence. This reset will take time. Rightly so. And this, too, can be my prayer.
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I appreciate and agree with the other comments. Your words beautifully convey the joy of love, the pain of grief and the space in between. Holding you, Theo, Walter and Hazel in my heart.
Echo the comments below that your words are truly a gift to read… hoping for you and Theo that time until sadness turns to “touch points of joy” in remembering Walter, lessens with each passing day