If I were to wake up tomorrow on the set of a big-budget melodramatic film with a director standing by my bed — bullhorn in one hand, Starbucks cup in the other — demanding for me to summon every single tear I have in my body to cry — cry, cry, cry as though it would save my eternal soul — would I think about my first love, sitting across from me in a quiet restaurant, telling me he was leaving town (and leaving me) and was there really much left to say? Would I think about family illnesses or the loss of my youth, high school graduation or the death of a family member? Would I think about how fast time goes by and how we all, someday, have to face the consequences of the decisions we’ve made?
No.
I would think of my dog.
There is nothing — nothing — in the world that breaks my heart quite like losing Roxie.
This article — Gene Weingarten’s “Something About Harry” from the Washington Post — pretty much sent me into spasms. Mourning the death of a dog is something dark and cavernous and scary — so scary that I didn’t realize how deep the pain could extend until I look back on it. In the days after Roxie’s death last October, I don’t remember what I did — what I ate, if I showered, where I went or who I talked to. The loss was overwhelming. Even though she was thirteen — old, especially for a big dog — and I knew she’d been sick off and on for years, I wasn’t ready. How can you ever be ready?
The one-year anniversary of her passing is Oct. 22, and I’ll definitely be posting in her memory — but I’ll concentrate on all of the happy memories for that one.
This is, unfortunately, another byproduct of what the fall does to me! Life and death — here, there. Next to one another. Leaning on each other. Everywhere.
