On losing a puppy…
This is the thing about losing a puppy.
There are not enough years of memories that exist together. No plural holidays, no numerous costumes, no constant jokes about stealing food from the dining room table. Those just do not exist.
But there are some memories. Of using fingers and toes to nibble upon and of finding a new favorite toy and of cuddling in bed on Saturday mornings because now you are mommy and that is all they need.
I grew up with dogs and had a dog and know what it is like to lose a dog. It is probably why I didn’t want a dog again, even when my own kids presented Wall Street-level arguments about why our household needed the presence of 4 paws and fur. I resisted until the pandemic did me in.
Fine. We shall get a dog.
And for 6 months, we had an awful puppy. She refused to be house trained, she ate everything made out of wood, she ate anything resembling a slipper, she ate everything. And she also reminded us of play and of laughter and of love, even during a very weird time in this globe. She made things feel both chaotic and normal.
But puppies are still puppies and a moment of loud wind could cause the biggest fright and one second away turns into 48 hours. Actually, 48 hours and 17 minutes. This is what happens when you lose a puppy.
And, so, we hope. We search and we work and we wait. We wonder if the puppy remembers us, as much as we remember her. We wonder if she has enough memories. We wonder if she knows how to find home.
It is really hard to lose a pet. But, somehow, I wasn’t prepared to lose a puppy. It is a grief that comes over me in waves, in random moments like when I am brushing my teeth and realize nothing is nipping at my ankles. I cry in the bathroom, I cry in my car, I cry when I am utterly exhausted from calling her name into the galaxy.
I miss her. As I sit and write this, I miss her pawing at my arm to give her attention. Puppies are challenging and needy and wonderful and lovely. Aren’t we all?
Kiki, I hope you come back to us. Please come back to us.