Nothing Ever Really Goes Away

"And I was going to ask, 'how's Chuckles', but no.." My daughter's voice trails off.

"It's ok, it's totally ok to ask honey," I respond, not wanting her to feel bad. At 29 my oldest lives on the other side of the country, but she somehow almost feels my inner most thoughts on some subjects.

Grief over having to put our dog down, an act I still ponder with disbelief, is almost a daily guest.

"I go outside, or sometimes just stop what I'm doing. And I talk to him. And I always cry  on queue," I say, remembering doing just that the day before. 

"Awww," she replies, with a tone that locks in understanding without the use of many words.

 If I threw a deck of cards on the floor, and observed the unorganized display that these days would be my emotions, I'd save the Queen of Hearts for Grief.

"Let's Take The Long Way Home-a memoir of friendship" is the trophy book of grief expressed with a quiet dignity I can only hope to possess. The author, Gail Caldwell, leaves little in the realm of self exposure. She describes a back-to-back loss of first her best friend and fellow writer, Caroline Knapp (author of Drinking:A Love Story) and her dog, Clementine, a Samoyed bred. 

From the q and a in the back of the book that I just today rediscovered and highlighted all over:

"Nothing ever really goes away," when the author is asked how grief changes a person.

The gift of grief gives me moments where I feel totally, completely connected to God. 

I strip  back raw, unbridled pre-tense of trying to just wave a tear or a thought away, and let full-blown sorrow fill my head and heart. It has it's own timing, and it's own way of brimming up, up to the top, and then like a tea kettle it lets off steam the  naked eye  cannot see, but a release occurs, and I complete the circle of resisting, bracing, and then peaceful surrender.

Chuckles, our Australian Shepherd, was my  idea back in 2010. We had been living in Iowa, as transplants from California, for a little over 3 years. 

The dog was the only thing we hadn't added to our "we're moving to the Midwest for cheaper housing, a big house means  a big yard and  heck once you have a yard....well....then you get a dog!"

Or so I thought.

The first year was rough. 

We did two things they say you should never do as first time dog owners - choose a puppy, and  a long haired breed. Chuckles was both. 

He was also very  tough to pottytrain, had way more energy than a single person could give  him, and my carpet upstairs and downstairs turned into a visual reminder of yet another thing that I couldn't fix.

And then, a shift. 

Over the years, Chuckles would be the one comfort I could physically touch and access and this was my  first step in pulling up and out of depression, for good. 

The energy he possessed became something I imitated. A kind of "what the heck" get up and go approach towards life that turned off the over-thinker in me, and gave way  to the child-like spontaneity I thought I could only  enjoy through my now not so young anymore children.

On endlessly brutal stretches of during Iowa winters, when my California friends posted their beach days in February freely, Chuckles was there. He'd come for a nudge, or in a naughty moment grab some forbidden object, usually a bedroom slipper when I forgot to close the door to the master. 

I'd have no choice but to literally get up and off my pity couch, lace up my snow boots, and barrel out into the snow-ridden yard, as Chuckles darted out before me chasing a lingering deer, or just thrilled with a temporary encounter with the outdoors. 

As the cold air hit my face, I literally jolted back into living life, and I'd call out, happy to hear a returning confidence to my voice, "Go get 'em Chuckles. Good boy!"

And then, that too, changed.

In the fall of 2021, a large bump appeared on Chuckles forehead, just above his eye. In the throws of the pandemic, it wasn't something that caught the eye, but eventually, our vet informed us that it was "a carcinogenic tumor, and it won't go away." We casually asked about treatments, to which our no-nonsense vet responded, "yeah radiation can shrink it, but they always grow back."

We left the clinic wounded, but Chuckles, didn't seem to notice. He was slower, being a now a "grandpa doggie", aged 12. Many days fooled us and him, as he managed to keep doing what  younger Chuckles did. This included  deer chasing in the yard, barking when the doorbell rang, looking anxious as if he suspected a Sunday outing with him on house watching duty.  

Like all naive first time dog-owners, I somehow  believed that Chuckles, wouldn't succumb to such things like cancer. 

That happened to "other dogs".

Life continued, for a while. The lump on his browbone  gradually grew. 

In 2022, he had occasional nose bleeds. That was the same year we had a son graduating from high school, and his older brother, graduating from college. The spring meant a double dose  of celebrating, and traveling.

It also meant  ignoring Chuckles slow, but steady decline.

In  fall, a family  member  suffered a health scare that knocked me flat. It was on the  cusp  of  a  miserable summer, with an sudden shift in  our  neighborhood  when the city of Marion, Iowa launched the last phase of  a  construction  project, previously halted during the  pandemic, or winter, or both.

It meant I  had men  in  my yard, spraying red and  green "X's",  and  non-stop  skid loaders at  the  edge of my property.  Our HOA didn't  allow for  fencing, so  these  fine  government  employees, and  their contractors didn't have to knock at my  door to get  access  to  our  half  acre  lot  in the back  of our home.

They figured they'd just, show  up.

"Gilles, it's time to downsize," and  away  to  open  homes  I  went, all  summer  long. And Chuckles waited  for me, every day, for his walk, or his yard time. Yard  time  that  decreased  daily, with  the  noise, and  arrival  of  construction  workers, their  radios, their trucks, their walkie  talkies.

When we closed escrow in  our  new  home across  town, I  took Chuckles  over to  see  his new fenced-in  yard, that would allow him privacy and  protection he needed  now in is  ever-slowing phase. I'll never  forget his reaction,  after I  let  him out  of  my  Honda, and took him around the back of  our new  home.

He immediately  dropped his head, and looked away.

I didn't know it at the time, but he had spotted  his burial site, just  beyond  the fence, at the  base of the  hill.

Chuckles turned 13th on  December 10th, 2023, in the new house. 

We didn't know it would be  his last birthday.