Most of my Jewish friends here in Oakland go to the same synagogue, so I’ve been privileged to attend many Bat and Bar Mitzvahs there. There’s a part of the Jewish worship service that I love, at least how they do it at this synagogue – the Yahrzeit observance. It’s a moment when the living acknowledge the passage of time since a loved one has died, and family members spend extra time remembering someone who died a year ago, two years ago, and so forth.
I couldn’t wait a whole year to remember him specially. It’s Achilles’ half Yahrzeit this week.
The first month after he died was rough. I have now learned that as awful as it is to lose a beloved pet, it is worse to watch your beloved children go through the same thing. There were frequent bouts of unanticipated crying. Even if, as we sobbed, we agreed that we’d do it again in a heartbeat for Achilles, there was a searing and bottomless anguish inside the house last October. The many, many cards and texts and calls and thoughtful condolences we received created a temporary floor where we could gather ourselves for the climb back out.
By two months out, we could start telling each other stories about Achilles again, and laugh instead of cry. The way he’d sneak up onto the forbidden couch very slowly, one paw at a time, thinking that the person lying there wouldn’t notice if he just went at 78 rpm speed. The way he knew when it was 6 am or 6 pm a.k.a meal time, down to the second, though he never wore a watch. The amazing way he cut his front legs to the right and his back legs to the left when playing with other dogs, so they could never be sure if he was coming or going. The laughter made it all a bit easier.
Christmas without Achilles was hard. Then again, Christmas WITH Achilles was hard, between the way he attacked everyone’s presents in excitement and pounced on whatever stray chocolates fell out of stockings. But Christmas without him was worse.
Almost right away after Achilles died, certain dog-loving people in my life began asking when we’d get a new one. “NEVER,” I said in those first days. “I am never ever going to put myself or my family through that kind of loss again.”
Time continued to pass. I’d run into people on the trail where Achilles and I have hiked together for years, and they’d say, “Where’s your pup?” and I found I could answer without choking up. I morphed into that dogless lady who greets other people’s dogs on the trail with kissy noises and baby talk. I freak out with affection when I see another German Shorthaired Pointer.
But if I’m honest, I also started acknowledging that there are some nice things about not having a dog. Sleeping past 6, for instance. Not being stared at through my entire workday. Walking through the house without tripping over someone determined to guess where I am heading next, so he can be there to greet me. Going away for a weekend without having to pay a dog sitter.
But the house feels so quiet after everyone else leaves for school and work for the day. And then Achilles’ old dog walker occasionally sends me texts like this:
The family is split on the subject of a new dog. My eldest daughter has recused herself because she leaves for college in the fall, but voiced her understandable reticence about us adding a new pet who she feels will never be “hers.” The youngest is ready to go out and pick up a puppy right now, and is making all kinds of promises about how much she’ll walk and feed the dog (which we all know would become fiction within the first month. )
My husband is firmly, loudly, and deeply in the “no dogs” camp. He always has been, but is a generous and loving dad and therefore lifted his embargo for Achilles, so the girls could have a childhood dog. They had that, so now he’s really just gone back to his original position. I suspect it may even be more firmly entrenched, as the sight of his wife and two daughters completely undone by the death of Achilles for weeks and weeks last fall was not something he’s eager to see, ever again.
As the swing vote, I see the merits of both arguments. I check the NorCal German Shorthaired Pointer rescue website at least once a week, just to see what’s happening over there. Then I sit down to fold laundry and come across the old kitchen towel that we placed under Achilles’ head in his final hours, and I start crying into it and saying, “Sorry buddy, I’m so sorry” when I don’t really know what I’m sorry for except that he’s gone. And I don’t want to go through that either, ever again.
So just as we are betwixt and between his death and his Yahrzeit, so am I between wanting a new dog and never having one again.
But here’s a thought. Do any of your dogs want a weekend visit?
Today’s song has absolutely nothing to do with the post, but for some reason I’ve been humming it all week. And it’s always the right time for a good song.
