Ruby

The texts and calls come crashing in. They almost feel like an assault, even though I love everybody who is taking the time to reach out. But, I am far away from everything and everyone—even my own family—although I know they are suffering from the same desperate grief.

The pain is dreadful: unrelenting and empty and it spills from my eyes without a break, leaving them raw and red.

We memorized her every nook and cranny. We practically inhaled her—four elegant paws, a long black tail with the tiniest tip of white at the end; the dainty little tuft of fur in the middle of her torso an open invitation to burrow our noses in. She had a stretchy, rubber band belly and smooth, floppy ears and jowls so jiggly we made up songs in their honor. She was goofy and hilarious yet elegant and sublime. She loved everyone and everyone loved her back.

Ruby belonged to us, we belonged to her, and when she died it felt as though we did not belong anywhere.

When bad things occur, rather than fully feel them, my brain often does this thing where it imagines how I will relay the present moment in the future. I consider which parts I will embellish and which parts I will omit in the re-telling. I picture the varying responses of the listener—perhaps sympathetic noises, gentle head shakes, long hugs.

But when the needle went in and we held her and whispered in her ear about how she was ours and always would be and remember that weekend at the beach when you discovered the water and how much you loved playing with your friends at the dog park and we love you so very much, this time my brain did not skip ahead.

The pain was so oppressive that I could not even conjure the future, since I was unable to imagine a future without her. I understood then that if hell exists this had to be one of its dimensions—the space where love and pain intersect and implode. Not just our pain, but the suffering of all animals and their families, both past and present; the felt sensation of anguish within these types of walls.

Death does not joke around about being permanent.

It turns out that it really is—achingly, unfearingly permanent. She simply was no longer there. She was not in her doggy bed in the living room, licking the same spot on her paw repeatedly as she settled down into a nap. She was not in the kitchen, glued to the side of the person who was currently eating, hoping to catch any wayward crumbs. She was not in our bed at night, circling and circling one spot and eventually plopping into a doggie ball of coziness and warmth.

She was not anywhere.

Our everyday routines were now tinged with pain since she was no longer a part of them.

A fundamental truth of life is that one day it will end. Most of us try to keep this detail in the fuzzy background of our minds because it is too heavy and bizarre to think about on a regular basis. But loss swiftly and aggressively forces us to confront the fact that one day, everything and everyone we love and care about will no longer exist; in fact, one day, we will cease to exist as well.

This existential crisis is its own kind of grief, and the memories, the lack of her, are yet another.

She had been our witness—her amiable presence comforted us through mundane days, difficult days, in-between days, joyful days, and milestone days. She watched as the kids went through growth spurts and hormonal changes and she hung out with their friends and observed their evolving taste in music and art and books and sports and video games. We brought her to their soccer games and the kids taught her how to play, and she never judged them when they stopped playing soccer even though she still kind of wanted to. She never wavered in her loyalty and adoration, even when they went through their teenage asshole phases and argued with one another about whose turn it was to take her on a walk or clean up her poop in the backyard.

Throughout the complicated and messy dynamics within our human family, our effortless love for her always knit us back together. We lost some of that when we lost her, not only as an object of mutual adoration, but as our anchor as well.

There are moments where I feel her essence flow through me so acutely my breath catches.

I know the rest of my family also experiences these moments, as do most pet owners from the beginning of time to now, in the present day. Sometimes, at night, I can still feel her protective, solid body pressing against my back. I have dreams about when she first figured out how to run, how her gait was at once goofy and elegant and how her long ears flopped up and down on the sides of her head like a young girl’s ponytails. I hold these memories tightly, yet at the same time I can hardly bear to witness them.

Really though, it is about loss in general. It is about the futility and unbearable sadness that comes with being a mortal, sentient being. It is about the loss of my father 20 years ago and my best friend’s mother last year and both of my in-laws within the last few years.

After we sold their house (including most of their furniture), my husband drove their remaining belongings across state lines and brought them back to our house. Their entire lives—all the vibrancy, pain, excitement, and vitality—reduced to boxes at the back of a U-Haul truck. I stayed up all night unpacking them, afraid I may not be able to face the task if I did not tackle it right away.

There was the clock my husband’s grandfather gifted them when they got married. Here was the mug my older son made for them when he was in kindergarten. I unpacked their wedding album, still in its original box. When we are missing them, we often look back through their albums. So many pictures—album after album—some I had seen before, many I had not. Lives lived in full, and I had only been a small part of them. So much I did not, and now would never know.

With Ruby, we got to witness her life from beginning to end. Although she did not live long enough (dogs never do), we were there for every part of it. How many other lives do we get to experience in their entirety?

My daughter and I recently got tattoos in Ruby’s honor. We cried as the needles marked our skin, though not because of the physical pain. There is no cure for grief. She is, and will forevermore be, both a beautiful memory and a permanent lump in our throats. It is astonishing to think how we willingly choose to break our own hearts. And we will, no doubt, do it again—again and again and again. It is the price of admission for this mortal life, and somehow, we keep deciding to pay.

~

This Precious Human Life is but a Bubble. Seize the day. Rejoice and be of benefit.