Fur Baby

An empty echo of silence, followed by a deep pang in the pit of my stomach. Monday morning rush, spilled coffee on shirt, toddler chase and a mechanical rumble of the garage door opening. No bark. No snorts. No welcoming paw patrol, nothing. Just a deafening reminder you are now gone. In the midst of my phone calls, site visits, billion zoom meetings, and my elbow deep dinners of rice and picadillo – you were always there. Like a canine vacuum picking up the mess of toddler dinners and stepping in for our smart robot vac whose job was to pick up the messy parts of our lives. The movie Wall-E plays in the background, a personal favorite in this household. The robot keeps picking up garbage after the human waste apocalypse. He charges his solar energy panel and continues trying to rebuild with only a cockroach as company. Wall-e is selfless, optimistic and incredibly brave – collecting human junk to try and make sense of his purpose. Is he only a robot? Were you only a dog? Walle’s purpose changes until he meets the robot Eve. An apple like looking robot, shiny, flashy and undoubtedly equipped with the latest and greatest OS. Her name however is old - an English name for a female, derived from the Latin name Eva, in turn originating with the Hebrew חַוָּה (Chavah/Havah – chavah, to breathe, and chayah, to live, or to give life. 

Rewind to the days of lockdown, on the eve of quarantine; you were my sons only true companion, he barked more than he spoke. Perhaps humanity would end up overweight on a floating wheelchair, in outer space in a semi digital media coma; with only a screen device to dictate our existence. If you weren’t there maybe we’d have no recollection of what it means to be human. You were AMD’s noble pooch – protecting him, regulating his tantrums and his one true comfort. You were his Wall-E. Sharing in the intricacy of a plant and what it means to roll in a grassy lawn and be covered in earth’s glory. You helped grow the seeds of our future. You were courage and chaos combined. You were obedient and pushed boundaries. You weren’t just a dog – you were a savior. I’m deeply honored to have shared you with my children but I’m hurting. I am mad. Mad at everyone and no one in particular. I feel an absurd violent pain; and I want nothing more than to continue to punch that stupid rectangular box in the garage. The box I took you out of, carrying your warm lifeless body in my arms. Regret inhabits me – he’s telling me I didn’t give you more time. More undivided attention. I try to explain and he shushes me. You should’ve been there, you could’ve done more and how did you let this happen?

I’ll let my sobs serve as my narration. Your fur was perfect. Smooth and fluffy. The curves of your ears pointing upwards and your beautiful brown eyes now closed. I’m screaming. I’ve lost my baby boy. I clung to that toilet that day. Remember? As blood poured between my legs and I put a hand on my belly begging for my other baby not to leave me. You were there. Understanding my first human loss. You asked nothing of me – you laid next to me as I clung to pain and bit into a towel, hysteria possessing me. And now I feel the same pain; a piece of me; like a piece of my marrow – has died out. How can I repay you? Why did you leave me? Why did you go where I cannot follow? I can’t do this without you dammit!

The day you met the kids – there was no special introduction. You made room and adopted each of them as part of your pack. No fuss, no jealousy – just love and acceptance. I feel selfish – I am selfish. You deserved to stay longer and continue to be a part of this family. You made me a parent. A first time parent. I don’t want to be a parent, I want to be a child. Disgust is asking me to ugly cry with snot dripping and waves of nausea urging me to hurl until I have nothing else left to regurgitate. A small part of me knew when I saw you laying there with partially glazed eyes – you were tired. I refused to accept it though. My gut told me it was a goodbye. My selfishness refused to accept your message. I do not accept it. Return to sender says selfishness. I asked you to come back to me – but not as a lifeless dog corpse. Your eyes are now shut forever, your bark quiet, your paws motionless and your body still like white marble on your bed. You were so stiff and yet glorious in your stillness. 

I played a game of pretend with myself the day you left. Let’s pretend you are not dead. As I attempted to console AMD on your departure I looked at his tear streaked face and shallow breathing– I pictured you now running in a universe full of stars chasing them like tennis balls in an endless sky of sparkle and joy. Like Wall-e when he leaves earth and goes to save the humans with Eve. Meanwhile, in the corner of my eye I’d peek at your lifeless body now wrapped in your favorite blanket. I’d make believe that it was rising and falling – and you were breathing. While I parented about grief – I lied to myself about your death. You were moving – this was all just a disgusting prank. Like your birthday April 1st, Happy April Fools! And the cruel joke delivers a sharp blow to my lungs which leaves me panting in sorrow. Denial is forcing me to cope in an ass backward manner. Guilt is asking me why I didn’t take you to the groomer sooner – your paws are intact, your nails indeed are long. I groomed you with my fingers, sitting with your head tucked under my chin and kept you close to my heart. Burning the memory in my mind as the sunrise peaked through the fence of our backyard and shown on your grainy little nose.

“All dogs go to heaven” I’d say to myself when I was a girl and lost my first dog. My mother had buried her before I got home from school to soften the blow of her departure. I learned this line from this movie created in 1989, which depicts the life story of Charlie the dog; who loses his life and goes to heaven leaving his girl companion Vera behind on earth. I remember feeling devastated for the main character and feeling a false sense of comfort. It was a coping mechanism where my inner child was learning that death is part of living. The adult in me is refusing this lesson and I wish to side with denial; and follow you to heaven. Grace then tells me you aren’t in pain. She finds a way to focus on the hope and faith you restored when my world was dark. Somehow, I’ve got to believe that our EVE (AVA) was your final calling. That when she stands in front of your drool stained bed and points – she is guiding us in a better direction. A path where my despair can’t follow, my hate for the doorbell won’t ring and the memory of your bark will resonate loudly in the house where you were king. I know right now I am resolute in my grief. It’s nonsensical in its method, and had me searching online for your breeder’s contact info so I could notify her you’ve gone. And for what? So I can strike a deal with guilt? Not giving him the satisfaction and proving that you mattered? You mattered greatly to this family. Your short ten year life provided a multitude of lifelines that I picture in my head as only gifts; the gift of being a human’s best friend.

I combed the mane of Misty, a beautiful white female horse, this past weekend. Grief reflected itself on her white coat - and somehow I found you. Faith restored my hope and together they opened a transcendent window so I could feel your energy, your love and your comfort. Could I have had only one more day? One more day of just you and me? Just like before baby boy, when I’d include you in my daily shopping, pregnancy announcements and you were at the center of our lives. Regret is telling me I got busy being a Mother to my human kids and left you behind. Fear whispers that I’ll never overcome this pale grief and that I should sign a contract with indifference. Perhaps I prefer feeling numb and going back to the pretend game. But pretending you’re gone doesn’t honor you. A week has gone by and I’m waiting for a call to come pick up your ashes. I can’t think of you as dust. I can’t really think of you as just my dog. When I reach the hardest part of my day, which are the evenings and the silence is unbearable – denial helps me pretend that you just turned the corner. But then I turn off all the lights downstairs and pass by your empty bed, and recite in a shaky voice under my breath - ‘now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Looking back, I now see all that you did teach me on the human condition even if you were a canine. You were my companion who humbled me with a first-time parent experience. The one who licked the wounds of my losses and kept digging me out of a hole so I could climb out. The one who stood guard at my feet during all my pregnancies and alarmed me to diaper blowouts. The one who helped my babies grow and thrive in a very trying world. The one who snuggled with Daddy when his baby brother left us; allowing him to hold you as a beacon of comfort to get by. A little French bulldog who provided a sacred space for a very quiet two year old boy in quarantine. The one who helped his baby sister, Ava take her first steps while keeping balance on his back. You gave me so much. So fucking much. And now doubt is asking me if I gave you enough? I take a deep breath, and Grace swoops in telling me to take it easy. To honor my feelings. I want to scream into an abyss until I am hoarse! I am a Mother who lost her first baby. I am bereft with sadness but a part of me needs to believe you are in a better place. In a heaven, full of life and joy. “All dogs go to heaven” says hope. Remember Faith? She’s with you too. A part of me knows you’re just like your name – Hamlet, which means Little Home. Rest easy, my beautiful fur baby. You’re home. 

~Denise A. Castro The Virtual Mom Collective