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I have a Hi-we've-exchanged-names-but-I-don't-remember-your-name-right-now-but-Hi-anyway relationship with maybe a dozen of the various dog walkers Emily and I run into at the park. We chat about dogs and the world, or don't, as we are moved to do. Some of them are lovely people; a few of them are jerks, all of them like dogs.
Yesterday when Em and I were in the park, I saw one of the dog walkers, a tall, spare guy in a baseball cap and fleece pullover, cruising around picking up poop. When I looked up from my book again he was suddenly doubled over, weeping, a plastic bag of poop hanging incongruously from one hand. Another dog walker went over to comfort him; I, since I don't know him very well, hung back, feeling a little uneasy about intruding. But after a few minutes I did go over and found out what had happened. He'd had to put his 14-year-old dog, Zoe, to sleep the day before.
He talked about Zoe, about the suddenness of her illness, about paying for a surgery that he'd hoped would give her an extra year or two but, in fact, only bought her a week. About how she had been the one constant relationship in his life for fourteen years, and how he'd had to make the decision to have her put to sleep, and had held her while she died.
The talk went from Zoe to grief generally, and somehow the Virginia Tech shootings came up. He'd been so consumed with his dog's illness and death that he had entirely missed the news this week. He was, awfully, ashamed, first that he hadn't heard about the shootings, and then that he was so grief-stricken about Zoe's death when people had lost children in Virginia. Hearing the news made him feel like his own grief was trivial, which didn't make him less sorrowful, just made him feel less justified in being so overwhelmed with sadness.
Loss is loss. When you love someone or something and you lose them it leaves a hole in your life that is filled with blackness. My friend was lucky to know the end was coming and to say his goodbyes. But while I grieve for the people who lost family and friends in Virginia in such an horrific way, I hope I also have enough room in my heart for Zoe's owner too.
Yesterday when Em and I were in the park, I saw one of the dog walkers, a tall, spare guy in a baseball cap and fleece pullover, cruising around picking up poop. When I looked up from my book again he was suddenly doubled over, weeping, a plastic bag of poop hanging incongruously from one hand. Another dog walker went over to comfort him; I, since I don't know him very well, hung back, feeling a little uneasy about intruding. But after a few minutes I did go over and found out what had happened. He'd had to put his 14-year-old dog, Zoe, to sleep the day before.
He talked about Zoe, about the suddenness of her illness, about paying for a surgery that he'd hoped would give her an extra year or two but, in fact, only bought her a week. About how she had been the one constant relationship in his life for fourteen years, and how he'd had to make the decision to have her put to sleep, and had held her while she died.
The talk went from Zoe to grief generally, and somehow the Virginia Tech shootings came up. He'd been so consumed with his dog's illness and death that he had entirely missed the news this week. He was, awfully, ashamed, first that he hadn't heard about the shootings, and then that he was so grief-stricken about Zoe's death when people had lost children in Virginia. Hearing the news made him feel like his own grief was trivial, which didn't make him less sorrowful, just made him feel less justified in being so overwhelmed with sadness.
Loss is loss. When you love someone or something and you lose them it leaves a hole in your life that is filled with blackness. My friend was lucky to know the end was coming and to say his goodbyes. But while I grieve for the people who lost family and friends in Virginia in such an horrific way, I hope I also have enough room in my heart for Zoe's owner too.