Losing My Shadow : The Death of My Dog Revealed More Than Just Grief
We are all creatures of habit, even when we don’t realise we are…
A dog like no other
I’d like to think that Moose was one of a kind. To me, he most definitely was. It was a combination of circumstance and temperament that made the stars align in our 14.5 years together. From the months we spent together when he was a puppy, me biting his ear if he misbehaved; to him keeping me warm when I didn’t have enough money for heating after my divorce.
He was the thing that got me out of bed in the tough times, made the good times even better; and brought joy to the day even when emotional demons clawed at the proverbial door.
His constant presence at my feet made me a deft kitchen ballerina as I avoided tripping over him. In his love, he gave me grace.
The long prep goodbye
I remember the day we discovered Moose had spinal degeneration. The condition that would eventually spell his end. I figured we’d have 6-months with him. We took him to the beach and I watched as he frolicked and dug, with a wonky swagger that would only get wonkier.
I started saying goodbye that day. I can’t say it made really saying goodbye any easier, but by beginning the process, I had hoped it would be less of a shock to the system. And to a degree I was right. My goodbyes were long and plentiful, and came mostly with the following guidance:
- Moose was allowed to eat as many treats as he wanted
- There would be no telling-offs, because what if those ended up being the last words heard?
- If I accidentally said ‘who’s a good boy?’, I had to immediately clarify with ‘you are’… because god forbid he went to his grave not knowing
Moose was still with us 1.5 years after that diagnosis. Full of treats and with zero doubt of how good of a dog he was.
Without a shadow
I could prepare my heart out for the death part. But nothing really prepares you for the quaking silence of a house without a dog. The first few days were spent listening out for his sounds that would no longer reach my ears — for the snoring, the shuffle as he turned in his bed, and for the barking protestations he would yell at us as he lost his marbles.
After that came the uncomfortable realisation that everything I did revolved around this dog. And that these million little actions were now cruel reminders of the loss. The way I stood up from the couch as quietly as possible so as to not disturb him. The way I would shuffle backwards instead of stepping normally, for fear of standing on ‘obstacle dog’.
But the kicker that really caught me by surprise was when I dropped food on the floor while cooking and had no dog to clean it up.
Who knew I was such a messy cook? Only Moose apparently.
The physicality of grief
What no one tells you is that your body remembers. It remembers the movements you make in the night when you know there is a dog on the bed with you, and you are trying not to wake him. It remembers to put a hand out of the covers when you hear the low wake-up-mom whine. It remembers to look towards the backseat of the car on road trips and ask “are you ok, Moomoo?”.
And it remembers how to breathe when the grief overtakes you because Moose is no longer in the backseat.
A creature of habit
I was cognisant of the obvious routines we had that revolved around our dog. The morning ablutions, breakfast, walkies, nap time, pee time, dinner time, snuggle time, play time, and Moose dictating when he’d like us all to go to bed. He was a creature of habit.
What I didn’t realise was that I was just a satellite circling that little creature. I moved in step with him, my day revolved around him, and I was so tuned into his needs that his habits became mine. My morning stretching routine on our garden steps was only a routine because he needed to go outside.
I haven’t been out into our back yard since his death, because my habits no longer make sense without him there.
Still leaving room for his shadow
I expected sorrow and crying, I expected silence and loss… but what I didn’t anticipate was the redundant pieces of myself that were left behind. The things that were only joyful because of the dog, the things that don’t make sense now without him. What I have learned is that grief includes finding new ways to inhabit the spaces left behind — both mentally and physically.
For now, while I uncomfortably feel my way around these blank spaces, I still leave room for his shadow.
RIP Moose Papoose, 26.01.2008–18.10.2022
