Grief Triggers

1 month ago 3

Two old, beat up, chewed red rubber balls on a counter. They have been chewed so much by a dog that almost a third of each ball is gone.

Clara left this world on September 28, 2024, four years to the day after Zani. I’m not ready to write a tribute to her yet. But maybe my thoughts about grief and remembrance can help others. This post is more raw and less edited than what I usually publish. I wrote most of it the day she died.

When Cricket died, I dismantled her doggie dementia setup that very day. The ex pen, the carefully placed dog beds, her food station, all the yoga mats and rugs and bath mats for traction. I did a lot of wash. I took Summer’s cage off my bed; that was the only way Summer could be with the group at night and Cricket still be safe. Summer came to love having her privacy, but I wanted more of my bed back. She continued to sleep in the cage, with the door open, in the room’s corner where I moved it.

I didn’t feel guilty about making these changes. I didn’t feel like I was “erasing” Cricket from my life. She had made a permanent imprint.

I believe it is perfectly OK to put things away, to be relieved from the stress of caregiving if it was present, to feel joy again after a loss. You are not betraying your dog or their memory. We all go about this differently, but I feel sad when I encounter people who are assailed with guilt for moving or discarding items related to the pet they lost.

It’s been hard with Clara, though, because it was so sudden. I, always prepared, wasn’t prepared for this. I had gone through anticipatory grief when she turned 11, then 12. At 13 I had started to glide, to take her ongoing health for granted. She seemed so very healthy, even with borderline Cushing’s. We walked every day for at least a half mile, up until the night before we said goodbye. Her walk was her favorite part of the day. Her last one was in a light rain, which she loved.

When hemangiosarcoma caught up with us, I didn’t even have the 18 hours I had with Summer. I had about 5 minutes to spend with Clara before she passed. This was my choice; she was suffering.

When I got home, I started thinking about grief triggers through the lens of behavior science. My partner had picked up Clara’s bowl from its place in the kitchen. I noticed and thanked her. I made an effort to keep up our routines for the other dogs. When I got ready to walk them, in order of seniority, little Choo Choo first, I opened the broom and leash closet and reached for Clara’s harness on its peg. I actually grabbed it before I remembered. Clara had been first in line for walks for three and a half years. The wave of pain set in. In behavior science terms, I was undergoing the worst kind of sudden extinction. Death of a loved one. The sight of the harness was the cue for a long behavior sequence that started with getting Clara harnessed up, then loading up my own gear, then taking her for her walk, just about her greatest joy in life. It had many reinforcers thrown in, most of which were unique to our interaction with each other. None of this would ever happen anymore. Ever.

A black harness and leash for a dog hang in a closet. There is tan hair visible on the harness. There is also a partial view of a purple fanny pack with a can of spray cheese in it.

I started being mindful about these cues, these reminders. They are not technically cues for grief. They are cues for behaviors that can no longer be performed, or for which reinforcement is not available if we try. Happy interactions that are not available on this earth. And bumping up against the non-availability, the nothingness, brings grief. By the time I had finished walking Choo Choo, then Lewis, I had made a decision. I opened the closet, pulled Clara’s harness from that particular peg for the last time, and went and stowed it in a drawer. Then I put Lewis’ harness on the peg. It had previously not had a place in that closet. Now it did. Hopefully, when I next run across Clara’s harness in another location and context, the sweet memories will be stronger than the stab in the heart, the sickness in my gut.

I will not forget Clara. I don’t need that specific reminder, a visual cue for which there will never, ever be that reinforcement again. I will think of her walks with joy, remembering details. But again, I don’t need that harness hanging on that peg.

I made a different choice with her collar. I put it on my bed where she sleeps. Slept. I imagined that it might be a comfort to Lewis. Who knows, really. Maybe he feels confused, or something else. But Clara’s collar on the bed is not a visual cue for me for a past behavior or sequence. I usually took it off after we got in bed. It lifts my spirit a little, having it there now. (Note: the spirit-lifting didn’t last long. The collar is a maddening stand-in.)

I’ve made different decisions over the years. The day my little rat terrier Gabriel died, at home, of a probable pulmonary embolism, he first vomited on his ramp to the bed. In his honor, that day, I cleaned the ramp and replaced the porous traction surface with a new one. Nobody else needed the ramp at that time, but it stayed. I also went around the house and hunted his fur. I had three ginger-and-white tabby cats and a black cat, so Gabriel’s sable hairs were unique in the house. I picked up many of them and kept them for a long time in a little bag.

That sentence pains me to write. I don’t know where the little bag of fur is now. That was in the far past. I don’t want Clara to be in the past. She is supposed to be here WITH ME. My puppy. The one dog I raised and loved from a baby to old age. I have never before, since 2011, her whole life, been separated from her for more than six or seven hours.

One cue that I cannot change involves my getting up from the table and walking to my bedroom. My movement was a cue for Clara, who then cued me. Virtually every time I walked to the back of the house, if I left the dog gate open, Clara would trot down the hall and head for my bedroom. Her behavior of getting up to follow was the cue for me to pause and look for her after I opened the gate. She loved being in the bedroom, especially being on the bed. I used to joke that she would be happy if we just lived there. I know I will be looking for her over my shoulder and catching my breath for a very long time.

Years ago I had a little feral cat, Arabella. She got mammary cancer. She had a tumor or lymph node in her neck that burst and bled before I had her euthanized. (I kept her on this earth longer than I should have.) There is a spatter of Arabella’s blood on the doorframe of my study that has been there for 16 years now that I haven’t wanted to clean off. I need and want that reminder still. So I have my weird little shrines. I know it’s odd, but that one is not macabre to me.

Tonight before we went to bed, we had “peanut butter time” for dogs, as usual. I started doling out a nightly glob of chunky peanut butter for all the dogs years ago because it’s handy when one of them needs to take pills. Clara has been taking selegeline for about six months now. No one else is taking a pill, but I’ll continue the tradition. But also, I’ll remove her pill box from the counter to remove that little visual cue and the pang it triggers when I walk by. The peanut butter routine itself is full of Clara, anyway. She was always first to her spot and longest to wait. She loved peanut butter almost as much as spray cheese. I offered her ghost a little lick tonight. Neither of the other dogs had taken her position.

People often make little altars. I might. A photo, her ashes. GOD HER ASHES. SHE WAS WITH ME LAST NIGHT, THIS MORNING. ASHES??? Ashes suck. But photos are a comfort, as are memories.

Clara is/was so embedded in my life that she actually had very few items in the house that were “hers.” It was all ours. She didn’t have one place she usually hung out in the common area; she had at least five. She didn’t have favorite toys lying about anymore, although she shared chew toys with Lewis. The things she loved, cardboard and her rubber balls, were not safe for free access.

Oh, her balls. Her beloved balls. I got them out. She would chew them up and sometimes eat pieces if I wasn’t fast enough. Even as a senior, she still liked to play ball, although she started more and more to favor the short period afterward when I would let her chew on one. They were gnawed on for 12 years. They’ll go on top of her ashes box, if I can bear to keep it out. Ashes give me no comfort, they piss me off. But yet I can’t not order them.

A tan dog with a black muzzle and black on her ears holds a dirty, red rubber ball and looks at the camera

A tan dog with a black muzzle and black on her ears lies on a dog bed with a colorful quilted cover. She is "smiling" at the camera—her mouth is open and her face relaxed. A much-chewed red rubber ball is on the floor in front of her.

Right now I’m in bed but putting off turning off the light and trying to sleep. Another sad first. Lewis has been very subdued all day, the most subdued I’ve ever seen him (Huston et al, 2013). He is curled up farther down the bed, his “place.” The place I taught him to settle rather than vying with Clara. But he’ll probably get in the crook of my legs after I turn off the light and turn on my side. I hope he does.

Then the household shall face tomorrow together, stubbing our toes on cues for things that can happen no more, and making new routines. New routines do not dishonor Clara. There is no chance, ever, of her being dislodged from my heart.

Reference

Huston, J. P., de Souza Silva, M. A., Komorowski, M., Schulz, D., & Topic, B. (2013). Animal models of extinction-induced depression: loss of reward and its consequences. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, 37(9), 2059-2070.

Read Entire Article