Loss has a way of showing us the meaning woven into the ordinary. What might grief teach us about the small graces in our daily lives?
I’ve found myself re-reading “The Liturgical Lives of Pets” a lot over the last few days. Maybe I should be reading Psalms instead, but it helps.
Any day—we have said it for years. Sometimes out of frustration as I scrubbed dog vomit from my rug, thinking the days of cleaning up aimless puking behind me. Sometimes out of sheer awe that a pug could survive 13.5 years of life with little more than a broken nail or upset stomach. Sometimes out of annoyance as he barked each time we frantically gathered shoes, coats, jingling keys—hurrying our children out the door for one reason or another.
He hated to be truly alone.
But any day arrived this week. And it wrecked us.
Louie had been in our lives our entire marriage, and even before that. It was a risky move, I reminded my husband on our drive home from the vet’s office, getting a dog for the girl you’re dating. What if it didn’t work out?
“But it worked, didn’t it?” he said smiling through tears.
I don’t really know how to be a wife or a mom—or an adult, really—without him. He’s seen us through sickness and health, better and worse. He moved houses more than most people I know. He comforted us in ways no words ever could. He bore the weight of the world with us and for us—as lonely, working adults; tired, new parents; grieving grandchildren. It’s no wonder he was gray and anxious.
But he also saw us through a lot of joy, too—and he made it all a little sweeter. There’s nothing like watching your first “baby” with your newborn. His tail wagging, scrunchy nose sniffing in that newborn scent we all love. Him, sitting at our feet as we rocked her to sleep for the ninth time that night. It was the way he greeted us when we came home, whether from months of deployment, a long weekend away, or just picking up the kids from school. He’d rise from his perch on the couch, tail wagging, tongue out, soft whining.
“Finally!” his eyes said.
I know he was just a dog, and I’ve never been a “pray for my dog” kind of person. Growing up on a farm where accidents and nature took our pets from us more often than I can count, I knew better.
We’ve been working on praying with our oldest, though. “I don’t know what to say,” she’d tell us. Until she learned the Lord’s Prayer. “Can’t I just say that?” she’d ask each night. Is that enough?
Something you’re thankful for; something you’re sorry for; something you’d like God’s help with—a formula she can remember. I don’t think I’m supposed to think of prayer that way.
Without prompt, her prayer for him in the end: “Thank you for the memories with Louie, and please help him to enjoy doggie heaven when he gets there.” It was enough.
He was just a dog, but he shaped our lives in ways I can’t fully explain. Our schedules, our relationships, our couch permanently indented with his potato-shaped imprint. Our eating habits, too. “I’m going to sit at the counter so Louie doesn’t get my snack,” our youngest says.
“Louie isn’t here anymore. You can eat your snack in the living room and watch your show.” Anything goes today.
He was just a dog, but he shaped our lives in ways I can’t fully explain.
My house is quieter now. No barking. No tapping on the hardwood as he wanders from room to room. No soft snoring from his perch on the couch. Now, when my husband and kids are gone, I’m truly alone for the first time in 13.5 years.
His fur—tucked into every corner—I’ll be vacuuming it up for years, I’m certain. Crumbs of dog food in every room as he carried mouthfuls to eat wherever we were. He really hated to be truly alone. Scratches on our sliding door from his paws, letting us know his outdoor mission of sunbathing, barking at the neighbors, or a quick bathroom break complete. Little reminders of the dog who showed us what relentless love can look like—scattered around the house.
I am better for having him in my life, a coworker reminded me. I’m sure it will feel that way again someday.
