Grief

When you get married, you say the words For better or for worse, and you mean them.

I know I did. At least as much as you can grasp the true meaning of for worse –– as it seems so remote in that moment, just a phrase inside of a vow -– especially after a flute of champagne -–  or four.

I took it to mean someone who is legally obligated by the State of California to share with me the good times as well as the bad. I felt reassured by that.

But what if you discover that when a for worse happens, like a death, the two of you process and handle the situation COMPLETELY differently.
How could you have known that?
And now what?

Especially when the deceased was loved equally by the both of you, how do you cope?

When something bad happens you want me on your team.
You see, I have what I call Delayed Reaction Syndrome. I immediately go into a hyper focused state – cool, calm and collected. I’m the one that makes the calls, orders the food, hands out the Kleenex, writes the eulogy, and is clear-headed enough to make all the uncomfortable decisions. I’m the furthest thing from emotional.
I’m …robotically rational. That is, until it what I call Phase Two kicks in.

My husband on the other hand wears his emotions on his sleeve. Actually they cover the entire outside of his body -– most especially his face.

He is incapable of holding back tears or masking sadness, and his reaction to death is appropriate and immediate.
There is no ambiguity. He’s profoundly sad and you know it.
In that respect we are a perfectly balanced match.

He grieves in the moment, while I get shit done.

There are cultures in the Mid East and Africa where they wail when someone dies, loudly and with great emotion, their bodies and faces contorted by grief. They even have professional wailers, I guess to help the family (and us Delayed Reaction types) along their emotional path.

I envy that. I really do. It appears to be an amazing release.

Two to three hours later is when Phase Two starts.

That’s about the time the tidal wave of sadness and grief comes ashore, washing me out to sea. Now I’m the one who needs comfort, I become numb, my mind unable to focus, and I want to talk and hug…a lot.

But by that time my husband is finished with his outward displays of emotion. He’s all cried out. He has now retreated deep inside, into his cave, and had moved a huge boulder over the entrance.

There’s no reaching him now.

I need to be held and reassured. That is uncharacteristically physically uncomfortable for him.
I need to cry…with someone. My tears are too much for him to handle. He’s reached sadness saturation. He is not available to me in any way, shape or form.

Moving through grief is a very solitary process, and it looks different for everyone.
I get it, I do.
But I don’t like it.

Come to find out we are just as incompatible in Phase Three.

His looks like this: Stay busy. Busy is good. Plan as many meetings and work related things as you can. Book yourself solid for twelve hours straight – then come home and pass out. Try to forget. Want all signs of the deceased erased from the house (I couldn’t do it) and no talking or tears please, too raw.

Mine looks like this: Stay in pj’s on the couch. Cancel meetings, walk neighborhood aimlessly while crying, with Kleenex stuffed up both nostrils, and don’t eat. Isolate and wish for company all at the same time. Bore strangers with your stories. Wish alcohol made you feel better or even helped you to sleep for that matter. Wash all the blankets and beds and then suffer huge regret, searching for her smell. Curl up with favorite stuffed animal for waaaaayyy too long. Forget to wash hair for three days.

Like I said, grief is an extremely solitary emotion that no amount of hugs, or kind words can help. Only time.

And just when you need it the least, it drives a wedge between two people who deal with death differently.

Even two people who love each other to bits just can’t manage to show up to soothe the other person. It was the first time I couldn’t help him. And it just goes to show that even when someone is legally bound to be there for you, sometimes they just can’t…and that came as a complete surprise –– and a crushing disappointment.

Phase Four:

You’ve got to find your solace inside yourself and that’s excruciatingly hard.

Even though he was required by law, when he promised, “I do” –– to be there for worse –– for me –– he had to find his own way first, and while he did that, I searched for my own.

Then we met, after a week, somewhere in the middle –– with open wounds and tears and stories of our journey, and in the process of finding our way back; we’ve grown and changed.

We’re different, and I think in the end we’ll be the better for it.

Carry on,
Xox

When you’re grieving a loss it is impossible to escape the memories. No place is safe.

Every room, chair, blanket, toy, vomit stain, neighborhood walk, and piece of grass is a minefield of emotions.
That applies to the loss of a dog.

For a human being you can just multiply that by a quadrillion.

Since daylight savings time had the bad taste to pick last weekend, the weekend of her death to bestow upon us its gift of an additional hour of daylight, I had the poor judgement to sit out in the backyard and write.
My bad.

It was one of her favorite places.
It is dog Disneyland, containing all the essentials required for canine happiness.
Grass, toys, balls and frisbees, and the arms with which to throw them (ours), so our OCD dog could wrangle you into a game of catch no matter what other plans you had made for yourself.

Nap? Nope – Catch.

Settle in and read a book? Nope – Catch.

Bar-B-Q, talk with a friend, write a book? Nope, nope and double nope. But good try.

Time for a relentless five-hour game of catch!
You get the picture.

The boxer-shark puppy, Ruby, did not inherit the ball, frisbee, play catch gene.

She inherited a whole myriad of other traits that are even more annoying, like digging up lawns and eating expensive furniture, but that particular “play catch/fetch” gene? It skipped her entirely.

If you throw a ball her way it will hit her in the head and then she’ll watch it as it rolls right past her. Believe me, I just tried to play fetch with her on Sunday.

But that was then –– this was Monday evening.

We were sitting in back, remembering the old girl and crying.
Okay maybe not we, me, I was. My husband I’m sure was thinking: please for the love of God woman, give it a rest.

But grief didn’t care. I was grief’s bitch. Grief was the boss of me.

Anyway…after a half an hour of hearing me carry on, waxing poetic about how Dita would be playing ball right now, Dita would be next to me with the Frisbee,something had to give. With an exasperated sigh the puppy got up off the ottoman, stretched, sauntered over and picked up a tennis ball in her mouth, brought it over to me and dropped it at my feet.

Then she looked up at me with her big soulful eyes, so full of compassion that said: Shut the fuck up already, Here! Throw the God damn ball!

I half-heartedly picked it up and gave it a sideways toss onto the grass, never for one minute expecting what happened next. Instead of watching it whizz by her head like she usually did, the puppy bolted out to the lawn, stopped its momentum, picked it up in her mouth and ran it back to me… Just like Dita.

I jumped to my feet,“Did you see that?” I yelled, wiping the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. Had I imagined it?

My husband straightened in his chair. “Do it again” he said.
And I did; over and over for almost a half an hour. She fetched every ball, just like Dita. As a matter of fact EXACTLY like Dita. Same energy level, same ferocity, she even made the same little growl when she picked it up off the grass.

“If I bounce this ball and she spikes it with her nose, I’m gonna lose my mind” I announced very enthusiastically to my bewildered husband. “Because then I’ll know. That dog isn’t Ruby, that is Dita in that puppy body, playing catch with me so I’ll stop being so sad.”

And on the next bounce she did. She spiked the ball off her nose and caught it in mid-air. Just. Like. Dita.

“If I hadn’t just seen that with my own eyes…” my husband said, shaking his head, eyes welling up with tears.

Here’s the thing:

Our animals, family members, and all the people we hold so dear would never want us to suffer over their loss, that I know for sure, so I think they give us the gift of their presence, even just for a minute, to lessen our grief, and let us know they are near.

I’ve heard and read numerous stories about occurrences that cannot be chalked up to coincidence.

Favorite perfume in the air, music they loved on radio, seeing their name everywhere, even an athletically challenged, previously uninterested puppy playing an all-star game of fetch.

All that just to let us know that they’re fine, they are with us and for God sakes stop crying!

Addendum: That incident helped me to really feel her near me, which then in turn gave me comfort –– she didn’t feel so far away. I feel so much better AND I tossed a ball Ruby’s way this morning…it hit her in the leg and rolled unnoticed into the bushes…just sayin’

Carry on,
Xox

So I woke up this morning feeling so much better. I’ll write about why tomorrow.

Needless to say it’s been a rough three days and when I looked in the mirror this morning, while I was brushing my teeth, the reflection that looked back at me was that of a puffer fish. My eyes swollen from crying, nose chapped and red and basically just a hot mess on toast.

It actually shocked me, it was so…NOT attractive.

Then I heard a voice in my head and it was that of my late friend Scott from my days in jewelry. Scott was a gentleman jewelry dealer in his seventies, with a head of white hair, bespoke suits and gorgeous antique rings and watches, he was someone out of another era… Let’s face it, Scott was a dandy.

He was also a shrewd judge of character and noticed everything down to the most minute detail.
This man had impeccable taste with the manners to match and although he spoke very little, what he said always hit the mark.

Scott could be a pompous ass, but who cares! — I thought he was divine.

Anyway, one afternoon while he was perusing the jewelry trays and entertaining me with one of the stories from his fabulous life, a customer entered. She gave us both a nod when we looked up but I noticed when Scott directed his gazed back down at his pile of treasures, he had one very raised eyebrow.

After another few minutes passed, I asked her if she needed any help and she very cheerfully answered back that she was “just looking”.

When I directed my attention back to Scott the eyebrow was still arched to high heaven.

Soon after she thanked me and left the store. A minute later without looking up, Scott said in his best faux British accent, “She had a face made for radio” which was his 1950’s gentlemanly way of acknowledging the obvious.

The woman was polite and nice but unfortunately, she was coyote ugly.

I gasped when he said it, but without missing a beat he looked up and winked at me with one of his twinkling, crystal blue eyes.

This morning I heard Scott’s dry, sarcastic voice as I looked in the mirror, “Sweetheart, you have a face made for radio.”

And I started to laugh. And not just a giggle, no it was from my big toe, into my belly, giant knee slapping peals of laughter –– long and deep and after the last few days I’ve gotta tell you –– it felt really good.

I’m sure my husband thought I’d lost my mind.

You guys, I do!
Today, I have a puffer fish face made for radio!

Love you Scott!

I just had to share.

Xox

“Grief, covers you with the weight of a wet blanket, smothers all other emotions, most especially joy”

~J. Bertolus

Here I sit, internally pummeled by the ebb and flow of grief.

It was just a dog, I tell myself, as the terribly underutilized rational part of my brain gets its chance to craft a reason and attempt to soothe me.

Doesn’t matter, moans my heart.

I loved her with all I had. I loved her without boundaries, deeper and wider and bigger than I could have ever thought possible.
She was my baby –– That thought just makes me cry longer and louder.

The rational brain, not used to seeing me like this, ups it’s game, taking a different tack:
You knew how this story would end, it reasons. Everybody dies, that’s the exit strategy we all agreed upon.

You’re right, I answer begrudgingly.

She was old and sick and you could sense the end was near… That’s funny, my rational brain doesn’t usually acknowledge intuition. It was clearly pulling out all the stops.

So why the sadness and the tears? It continued. The question actually had an air of sincerity –– my brain searching, seeking a viable answer.

Love…its about love. When you love someone or something with ALL your heart and soul…well, the pain of  its loss is equal in measure.

I could feel it contemplating, reasoning –– love sounded dangerous.

Then why love at all? When you know it will end this way, with so much pain –– why risk it?

How do I explain?  Deep breath.

Because without that love, without opening your heart that much, each time more, then more, then more again –– life is colorless, black and white, and in my opinion not worth living. The reward is worth the risk.

So…I’ll cry and I’ll feel bad for a while and time will carry me through this; and when I’m on the other side of grief I won’t forget her, I could never do that. It will just start to hurt a little less each day until her memory makes me…smile.

Then I will have forgotten the pain enough to love without borders, ignoring all reason.

All the while knowing how this ends…

xox

* dearest loves, I want to extend my heartfelt thanks for all the outpouring of love and condolences, the emails, notes and flowers. It just affirms how extraordinary she was (is).

What can I say about losing a pet?

They are arguably a member of the family, an integral cog in the wheel that is our day-to-day life. They accept our moods, dysfunction and questionable decisions with a complete lack of judgement and a wash of unconditional love. Who else can do that for us?

We lost Querida (Dita) our precious 9+ year old boxer girl last night.
It was sudden, in her sleep, in the back of my husband’s van that doubles as her pimp ride everyday. The back seat of this vehicle looks like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle, lush and cushy, ridiculously cozy with balls and blankets and toys, befitting such a queen.
She exited this life HER way. No fuss, no muss and no drama.
It was the way I would have chosen for her to go, and truth be told, the way I had been begging her to choose –– the way we all want to go –– instantly, painlessly and peacefully. Right?

Then why do I feel so bad?

Ugh. I write this with such a heavy heart, and I know better….I really do. I know in my heart of hearts that she has merged with pure positive energy and is playing a wicked game of frisbee in dog park heaven…yet, I can’t stop the tears.

I’ve grieved cats before. I lost two of them to coyotes ten years ago. But losing a dog feels different to me in this way: Cats are affectionate, and mine loved me something awful, don’t get me wrong, but I never got a sense from them that they needed me. Not for their happiness anyway. Maybe to feed them and an occasional cuddle and pet, but I was quite aware that the human in their life wasn’t Janet specific – it was…interchangeable.

But my dog? SHE loved her mommy (me) and she let me know it every day.
She’d follow me around, especially this last year or so as her health declined, with her big soulful eyes, finding solace in watching me go through my daily routine. She’d peek around the corner if I wasn’t in the kitchen for coffee fast enough, Pssst, you comin’?
And accompany me to the bathroom to drink out of the bidet. She also stood beside the shower every morning waiting for the hot washcloth to rid her of the smeared make-up. As you can see from the photos, she was a bit heavy handed with the eyeliner.
They love routine. SHE loved routine.

Every morning I play the Gayatri Mantra chant by Dev Premal. It wafts through the house for a couple of hours while we go about our morning rituals. It soothes and calms and helps us start the day without killing each other.
Yesterday was no exception, but I noticed as I raced around, that Dita was standing in front of the computer with the most blissed out look on her face. I mean BLISSED.
I even made several comments to Raphael, chuckling, “Dita is REALLY enjoying the chant this morning!”

That’s what I want to remember.
My Yogi girl, with her snaggle toothed face, looking up at me, blissed out on the smell of incense and the sound of ancient Hindu chants.
As a side note, I play meditations at night to fall asleep. They last maybe fifteen minutes and none of us ever hear the end because –– out -we-go. All I had to do was start the intro and she’d hop down into her own bed, and proceeded to follow the breathing. I’m serious.

Breathe in… the tape would say, and as I inhaled a deep breath, I could hear Dita do the same. And…exhale… Which we’d both do, Dita and I, in tandem. It was so endearing that I would even elbow my husband, are you hearing this?

I’m gonna miss that.

Indulge me for a second while I remember her.

I raised her from an eight week old puppy the size of my foot.
I carried her outside to pee in the middle of the night as a puppy, inside my T-shirt, rain or shine, until she got the hang of the doggie door. It was me she came to when she didn’t feel good, right up until last week.
If I would have had a zipper, she would have crawled inside my Mommy suit.

We were a team, the two of us. Not like her dad and she, different –– in an almost metaphysical way.
We got each other. She understood my moods. She understood English for that matter, always freaking me out when I’d ask her to fetch her blue ball out of a box of tens of toys. She would disappear for a couple of minutes and there she’d be, blue ball in her mouth.
I know every mother says it – but she was gifted.

She held my hand at night, slept with me when Raphael went on his far away motorcycle excursions, and was our alarm clock, waking us all at 6 a.m. every morning. I expect I’ll be late for a while.

She was a wiz at balancing a banana on her nose, and then, on command, flipping it into her mouth, with great pride I must add. She also loved to eat ice cubes.

She hiked the canyons with me from the time she was twelve weeks until her legs gave out, loved to bite the sprinklers, was obsessed with balls, frisbee and playing catch, rode in the motorcycle sidecar like a biker bitch, wore a security vest at my husband’s job sites (with full attitude I might add) was impeccably trained, well-mannered and polite.

She was my “shop dog” at Atik, the greeter, the mascot and the resident rascal. She’d wear any hat, glasses, and reindeer antlers that came her way, she even rocked an orange polar-fleece vest that made my husband cringe with embarrassment.
She was game for anything. I loved that about her.

She knew funny. She had the comedic timing of Lucille Ball.
Dita knew how to make us laugh and loved to do it. But she never overdid it – she was a pro.

She hasn’t been too keen on the addition of the boxer-shark puppy this past year. I think our little plan backfired, calling attention to her advancing age, rather than prolonging her youth. I’m sorry baby.

I look forward to the sadness lifting so I can be more receptive to feeling her around me, because I know that’s how these thing work., and I’m looking forward to her visit.

Thanks guys, I needed to write just a small tribute to her – she deserved it.

A class act till the end, she touched a lot of hearts and will be sorely missed by so many.
Fuck…losing a pet…

xox

“Love comes to those who still hope even though they’ve been disappointed, to those who still believe even though they’ve been betrayed, to those who still love even though they’ve been hurt before.”
– Anon

Who hasn’t wanted to throw in the towel, join a convent, become a loner, join the Foreign Legion, live on a deserted island with only a soccer ball to give them shit, and padlock their heart for safe keeping, throwing away the key, after a love affair has crashed and burned?
Show of hands?

I have mucho experience in this field. I have been epically dumped, numerous times, so I’m an expert. And that’s all the dirty details you get today.

Except…
Each time, even as the sheets were cooling off, I worked really hard to keep my heart open, cuts, bruises, skid marks and all. I could be laying in my bed, boo-hoo-hooing my head off, snot all over my pillow, and the mantra that would keep repeating in my head-full-of-sorrow would be this:
“Keep your heart open Janet, don’t close your heart.”
Well, maybe not at first – but it always did sooner rather than later.

And you wanna know why?

Because it gave me another chance to fall in love, and THAT is one of my top five, all time, stupid smile on my face, greatest things EVER, why we are here, wouldn’t give it up for the world, FAVORITE things to do.

I love feeling that chemistry when you first meet someone new. The giggly phone calls, dating, getting to know someone, and eventually feeling that little tingle that let’s you know – holy shit… I’m falling in love.

Again.

This wounded heart is on the mend. I recognize that feeling, its…love.

It amazing how resilient that muscle can be. Love is like a magic elixir that just washes away all the pain and hurt, all the betrayal, doubt and fear.

Until I met someone new, (and I know you think that will NEVER happen again, but I can assure you – it will), I’d marinate my heart in love by watching movies and reading books that reminded me that I could feel it again. I’d even hang around my lovey-dovey married friends.
Like an athlete keeping their muscles supple by stretching. Often it was an excruciatingly painful process.
I would have much rather stayed bitchy and bitter.
I’m sure you know what I mean.

But the alternative, an atrophied heart, hard and cold, unable to let in the love, was unacceptable to me.

Tweet: I’m a lover. It’s the dealer breaker between Me and life.

I’d rather love than be right.
I’d rather love than feel vindicated.
I’d rather love than be mad.
I’d rather love than get even.

Before you smack me, take a minute. You know I’m right.

Tweet: Because love really is the best revenge.

* This also works inside a relationship when you forget why you love them and you want to grab them by the throat and see them suffer…oh, maybe that’s just me.

Sending you big, big, love,
Xox

* Hi Loves,
Recently I tried to rush someone’s healing process.
Right? Shame on Me! I’ve been there, I know better!
So I needed to re-read this to remind – myself.
Maybe you need it too.

Healing takes time! Time to find the silver lining, to look on the bright side, to discover the purpose, to remember that this too shall pass.
Sorry.
Carry on-

Barn’s burned down,
now I can see the moon.
~Masahide~

Oh, so I get it!

Don’t worry about the loss of that beautiful, useful, building you’re still paying for, now you have a view…of the moon…on the nights when you’re outside sobbing over your lousy luck and the shit the insurance company’s putting you through.

Only then can you take a second to raise your snot covered face to the sky,
“Oh never-mind, why am I so devastated? – that is so beautiful…now that the barn’s gone…I can see the moon”.

NOT!!

I wish to God Almighty I could always be that enlightened in the face of crisis and chaos!

Car got totaled,
now I can get some exercise…
How practical.

Or how about,

Husband left me,
now I can catch up on my reading…
Ommmmm…perfectly Zen.

Don’t get me wrong.
I love the message behind these spiritual sayings,
and they really do give me pause to do a reality check, but honestly! Who lives like that?
Maybe me on a good day.
But it would have to be my best day ever.

I take it as a suggestion of an ending place, a goal, a place to aspire to.
Because, if I live under the impression that that’s where I should be immediately, it makes me want to scream and cry, and punch somebody in the face.
It may take me awhile to get there, shit, it could take years!

If the proverbial barn burns down, I’m gonna freak out.
I’m gonna get mad.
And sad.
And scared.
Maybe all at the same time.
Because in that moment, that’s appropriate.

I’m going to use every profanity known to man,
in every language I can think of, and some that haven’t been invented yet.
I’m going to yell them loudly – and often.
As verbs and nouns and adjectives.
They will start and end every sentence I speak.

Maybe NOT appropriate, but amazingly cathartic.

Then, only after the dust has settled, and I’ve had a good cry and a glass of wine and regained my composure…
THEN and only then…will I appreciate the fuckin’ view.

Xox

DON’T BECOME A MUSEUM TO GRIEF

Isn’t that a powerful phrase? A museum to grief?

Below is a new post by Liz Gilbert. But first let me say: I’m a HUGE believer in getting rid of the past – I even lit mine on fire and did a tribal dance. Here’s a little story about clearing out my own Museum to Grief in a short excerpt from
“Want A Man? Make A List.”-

“I thought it would be a good idea at the time, to take all of my ex’s cards, notes, mementos, pictures, and poems – and burn them.
I would then scatter the ashes to the wind, giving the Universe a smoke signal, making it clear that there was now a boyfriend void to fill.

With my right shoulder cradling the phone, I took Wes (my BFF) outside with me, along with my box of memories and a lighter.
It was about 8pm – cold, dark and lightly drizzling, which I thought was a good sign. I put everything on a large stone, in the middle of my wet patio and lit it up. In a couple of minutes, there was a good little fire going, and I watched our smiling faces and birthday cards filled with his once loving words, melt before my eyes. Trouble was, a significant breeze had picked up, and started swirling a small tornado of embers all around me. I was screaming, trying to get away, but the lost love delivery system, disguised as burning memories, was in my hair, my face, and my mouth and burning tiny holes in my flannel nightgown! All the while, Wes was laughing hysterically in my ear!”

Here is Liz’s story-

“Dear Ones –

ONWARD,”
Liz

PS. I just read that a woman threw her old, dark, memories in the compost pile – and used it to grow amazing tomatoes! Gotta Love that. Do whatever it takes. Be creative – then tell me about it.

xox

Dedicated to everyone who’s lost their pet.

Well…you’ve just read about the loss of my beloved cat, Fraidy.
What about Teddy? What happened to that portly, needy, stay at home fella?

Our friend who was taking care of the cat(s) told us Teddy had been his ever-present self while we’d been away, meowing for Fraidy, but grateful for the extra attention.

The day I returned from Palm Springs, to my new life “after Fraidy”, as I got out of the car, I remember noticing tufts of white fur dancing in the breeze all over the front yard.

We entered the house from another door besides the front, otherwise we would have seen it.

The next morning, after Teddy hadn’t come home all night, (maybe he’d seen Fraidy get killed and was traumatized, hiding; we surmised) I thought I’d go down the street calling his name – so he’d know it was safe to come home.

That’s when I saw it. There on his chair on the front porch, signs of a struggle; cushions askew and fur – everywhere.

I screamed for Raphael and we followed the trail. Tufts in the bushes adjacent to the chair, bigger tufts past the driveway and close to the sidewalk (what I’d seen the previous day) all leading to a ridiculous amount of fur in a circle on a neighbor’s front lawn. It was obvious, something horrible had happened there.

I was scream-crying, hands covering my face.

no,no,no,No,NO,NO!…

“Go back to the house Janet.” Raphael was looking around in the bushes, another neighbor had joined him.

“I’m not kidding, GO BACK!” He yelled at me.

“What…do…you…see? Is…he…there? Is…it…Teddy?” I was crying so hard the words were spaced between sobs.

He walked over and hugged me, turning me around, aiming me back toward the house. “GO HOME, NOW.” He didn’t yell, he said it with a quiet authority I’ve never heard in his voice before – or since.

I zombie-walked back to our front porch collecting the fur, Teddy’s fur, along the way.
By the time Raphael came slowly walking back, shoulders slumped, head down, I’d collected three large double hands full.

That’s my Teddy Bear, I thought, remembering a fight I’d broken up years before, in the middle of the night. I had leapt out of bed, woken up by that cat screaming that sounds like babies crying and I KNEW it was Teddy.
I ran stark naked out into the backyard, following the screams, yelling his name, until he made a beeline, running past me back inside. I pulled him out from under the couch and checked for blood, there was none, but he was covered head to toe in sticky, wet saliva.
He ended up having puncture wounds in his neck, under all that thick fur, that abscessed, battle wounds of a VERY close call.
The vet thought it was probably a possum. In the week that followed he had to have drains put in and wear the cone of shame, and his late night battle had taken its toll, that chubby, black Siamese face turned completely white. It took a couple of years to return to its normal color.

Bottom line – Teddy was a fighter, I could see he’d put up a good fight.

I’ve asked my husband many times since then, often in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep, “Did you find Teddy in the bushes that day? Did you see him dead?” His answer is always the same, “no”, but I’m not sure I believe him.

In the weeks and months that followed, I grappled with my grief and my guilt. I felt that if I’d been home I could have saved my boys. I can still feel it as I write this.

I turned to my spiritual practice to help me cope with that kind of loss. I read books and talked to whomever would listen, and the consensus seemed to be this:

Our animals are little angels that share our lives and shower us with unconditional love.

They hold or balance our energy, licking our tears and climbing into our laps when we need them the most.

We will see them again someday.

All of that gave me comfort.

It was also explained to me that since my life had recently changed SO dramatically, it was okay for them to go. I had gotten both cats as a single, working woman in an apartment. A lot had changed; I was married, in a house with a dog and I’d just quit my job of twenty years.

“They held the energy of your old life” a wise friend told me, “it’s okay for them to go, you’re not alone anymore, your life could not be more different. Bless them for getting you here.”

That was in 2006; and I’ve since noticed that when anyone around me loses a pet, their life is going through some kind of transition; a baby, a move, change of jobs, marriage, illness, empty nest, divorce, something that sends the silent signal “It’s okay to go.”

So when you lose that precious pet, if you can crawl out of the hole of despair for just a second, you’ll be able to see it too.

They carried you as far as they could go – and then they handed you, or will hand you, off to someone new.

I get that system. I don’t like it, but it makes sense to me, and I harbor the hope of seeing all my furry friends on the other side.

What a great day THAT will be.

Big kiss with a wet nose,
Xox

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost their pet.

While we were away I actually received a few calls, “Hey, I just saw your cat in my front yard” the lady five blocks over reported. I thanked her, explaining that he had returned home.

Damn, when I get back I’ve got to remember to take down any signs that are still up, I told myself; but I thought it was sweet that people were calling and I was thrilled that he was back to visiting his old haunts. So no red flags went up when we got a message mid-week, that someone had our cat.

“Please call me, it is very urgent that I talk to you. I think I have your Siamese cat.”

“Another Fraidy siting” I said out loud while Raphael dialed her back. Thirty seconds into the call I could tell by his face this one was different.

I remember we were sitting in the car, in a parking lot, but then I left my body as he gave me the news: this woman had found the upper half of a Siamese cat; an obvious coyote kill.

It had taken her days to reach us; for some reason his collar was missing, and as was his nature, that little shit was far from home. She had put “found cat” signs up in her neck of the woods, but it wasn’t until someone saw one of my signs and put two and two together that she had a number to call.

We went back, met her and her family, bringing pictures of Fraidy, just to make sure it was him. Of course, it was – but she really loved seeing photos of him alive and well.

This woman is an angel on earth, an animal LOVER and a mom.

Here is a beautiful letter she wrote to us after our initial meeting about my darling Fraidy and the gift he gave her family. This letter was Her gift to me.

July 15, 2006

“Dear Janet and Raphael,

It was very moving to meet you both. It’s strange to have shared something so personal with people I don’t know, and I’ve found myself wanting to tell you a little more about the day I found Fraidy. I need you to know – more than I was able to express when you were here – the gift your beautiful cat gave me.

Three days before we went on a family trip, my daughter’s dog Lulu, had been diagnosed with bone cancer. Our housekeeper, Angelica, stayed at our house taking care of her and all of our other animals. Lulu took a dramatic turn for the worse after we left town and died two days before we came home.

My daughter, Ivy, is 14, the same age as Lulu. She and Lulu were inseparable.
Everyone who knew the profound relationship between them believes that Lulu timed her death so Ivy wouldn’t be here to experience it. The trip home was one of the hardest of my life knowing that Ivy would walk in the front door and need to be told that her beloved soul mate had passed away while we were gone.

We got home Saturday night, June 24th. I was up most of the night consoling Ivy and woke up Sunday morning feeling completely helpless. I took our little dog for a walk in the neighborhood to try to find some peace with it all before the rest of the family woke up.

It was probably 7-7:30 in the morning. There are often lots of people walking at that hour, but on this morning the sidewalks were completely quiet. It was in this quiet, surreal state of exhaustion that I saw a beautiful Siamese cat in the yard of the home on the southeast corner of my street and Kraft.

The image that will always be with me was the peacefulness of his face. It was in such startling contrast to the attack that had been made on him. It was as though his life had been taken from him in the middle of a happy nap. When I petted his head, he was still warm, so I found him very close to when he died. Because he was laid so neatly in the yard, I can only assume he’d been carried there by a coyote who had been frightened off by something – maybe even by my dog and me walking down the street.

I ran home and came back with the car so I could wrap him in a towel, bring him home and keep him safe. (she put him in a large freezer in her garage) I came back later with Ivy to ask neighbors if they knew whose cat he might be, which is when we met Geralyn, the woman who later saw your sign which put me in touch with you.

I didn’t let Ivy see Fraidy, but she knew his death had been the opposite of how Lulu had died – inside, surrounded by our friend and other dogs. The experience of trying to help with someone else’s loss really helped her get through the first day.

When I hadn’t had any response to the signs we put up by Thursday of that week, I decided to bury him. I chose the back corner of our yard because it’s the most peaceful spot. It’s far from all the dogs, kids and gardeners, and is where I love to walk to get away from everyone. A couple of times a day there is a great shaft of sunlight that shines right where I buried him. I had a little service for him by myself when every one else was off at work and camp. (she is a famous illustrator, and she decorated a rock as a headstone with her art and his name).

I sat with him for a long time. The suddenness of his death put the suddenness of Lulu’s death in great perspective for me. The tranquility in his face reassured me of a greater plan, and gave me peace about our loss. It was as though he was saying to me that even this vicious attack couldn’t scratch his great spirit.

It is this message from Fraidy that has helped me help Ivy cope with losing Lulu in the weeks that followed. It has given me – and her – great strength. It’s made me believe more deeply that our next life is just on the other side of this one, and that animals travel between the worlds more easily and are certainly always around us to be our guides. The book I’m sending, http://www.amazon.com/Cat-Heaven-Cynthia-Rylant/dp/0590100548
was written for children, but is exactly how I imagine the next life to be.

I didn’t do anything heroic helping Fraidy find a resting place.
He gave me a gift I will never forget, and I am very thankful for him.
When I contrast his free life with the way our cats live – perfectly safe, but the closest they’ve ever gotten to a tree is to see one out the window – I think he was a very lucky guy.”

That he was.