Chaos Everywhere Options

[MigginsMom]

It has been five weeks since my beloved dog of 12 years, Chaos, left my life. A new type of chaos now exists—filled with loneliness, anger, and depression. Don’t get me wrong, I do have days when I believe I am stronger, and can smile without tears when I remember all the good times. His name was Chaos; he was a Lab/Retriever mix, and a good/true friend of mine. With such a beautiful face and coat, and an amazing disposition, everyone he met instantly loved him. He was often the center of attention, swam like a marathon swimmer, enjoyed boating and followed everyone who water-skied around the lake, just in case they needed to be saved. I referred to him as Miggins or Momma’s Boy, and commented often that he was “uncaninely” fun. Chaos could open doors, skin a water bottle in less than five seconds (remove the twist-top and outer ring), jump and tap a bird in mid-flight out of the air– although he never hurt them; he was just that quick in his younger years. He did have one annoying trait—his bark was oddly high-pitched and very loud, and he barked a lot. He could hear a fly fart outside.

For the past 8 years, I have worked from a home office, so Chaos and me had a solid routine – in the early morning, he would hear me rise and his tail would thump loudly as he waited patiently by the stairs, looking up to catch a glimpse of me descending. Even though the family (my kids and husband) would be up and down, preparing for their work days, he would hardly stir, preferring to sleep in and wait until his Momma came down to greet him. If I had to leave the house to go shopping, attend meetings, or run errands, I would look at him and say “Momma will be right back”. I always came back, and he understood the concept, I know he did.

He rarely ever went ‘up’ stairs, unless there was a thunderstorm—he preferred to sleep in his comfy bed, on his big pink comforter at the bottom of the stairs, (or not so secretly on the living room couch) always on guard. Our typical day included me preparing the family lunches, while Chaos would sit beside me in the kitchen and wait for food to ‘fall’ into his mouth. After everyone left, we had our early morning walk, and then Chaos was content to sleep under my chair while I tapped away at the keyboard; “making money to buy us all treats” I would tell him. He’d nuzzle my elbow when he felt I needed a break, or it was time to play, or walk, or go for a quick squirt in the backyard. But he was happiest just laying near me, so he could feel my feet under or rubbing through his fur. I was happiest having him under my chair, my feet tucked under him. I am more than three weeks behind in work.

I thought I had experienced all the stages of pet-loss grief, but it hits me in waves, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes the memories and now loss cause my chest to tighten and the tears start flowing. I spent countless hours searching for something that will ease my pain and have come to a conclusion – there are not enough words or distractions to help me focus on life’s current challenges and triumphs. Chaos had a way of keeping my “stick on the ice” – yes I am Canadian so hence the hockey metaphor. He helped me through some extremely difficult years/months/days and nights, and made everything in my world seem right, and safe. I believe my husband is sending me to the penalty box for “high-sticking”.

The last week of his life was for the most part heart-wrenching and awful—extended because I did not want to let him go. I slept with him on the floor, his breathing labored; his whimpering still haunts me in the nights. The cancer was rapidly spreading, and he was losing control of most of his faculties, he didn’t bark anymore, and his hearing/eyesight was failing. Even bacon or the prospect of a walk didn’t interest him. It was the last day of his life, and the kids drove him to a nearby river, carrying him (all of 85 pounds) to see the water, the ducks, and all the other dogs. He came back wet, and oddly content. But the reality was, he was struggling—he could no longer run, or jump into the truck. My husband and I took him to our vet to be euthanized that evening. It was peculiar, this feeling of knowing within minutes, Chaos would be at peace and yet, the finality of it all not registering with me. For Chaos, I was the one who had to be strong, reassuring, holding his head in my lap and whispering into his ears, one last time “Momma will be right back”. It was a peaceful end for Chaos, and the beginning of my journey into emotions that I have little control over. Once his last breath was breathed, my loud sobs could be heard three towns away. It was the shortest and longest day of my life.

This morning I crawled along the hardwood floors, running my fingers over each groove where his claws had dug in and left their marks. I kneeled on each stair where deeper claw marks remain, left from when he frantically tried to escape the booms of thunder or the sounds of firecrackers. Profoundly, the hundreds of indents remind me of the many ways he touched my life and made it all that more whole. Chaos left many marks, but I can’t seem to find his lovely scent anywhere; he oddly enough only smelled like a dog when he was a wet dog. My husband threw out everything; his bowls, his leash/collar, his blankets, his bed, his towels, his brush, his toys, his baby crate. He said he was only trying to protect me. I find Chaos hair and water bottle rings and tuck them away in an antique sugar bowl in my china cabinet—secretly stashing every piece of evidence that he was here. His pictures are everywhere—besides, he was in almost 99% of our photos. He was family.

I can’t get used to the doorbell ringing; because he is not here answer it, charging towards the front like Marmaduke. He isn’t protecting me from that dreaded paperboy collecting money, or the UPS delivery person. Birds and squirrels have returned to the yard, although I adore them, it’s not the same without his barking and chasing them away. I still separate my food because for the last 12 years, there were always meats and treats left on my plate for him. I avoid the pet food aisle in the grocery store – every shop ended with a new treat for Chaos. Spilled food remains on my floors, but the hair is now mostly gone. I can’t drink from water bottles.

The first trip to the cottage without him was brutal. I set up his memorial in the woods beside the fire logs – his favorite place to chase chipmunks. I nailed a plaque into the cottage wall – “Home is Where the Woof Is” … my favorite picture and saying. At the end of the day, when everyone returns home from work/school and whatnot, I am still lonely. Chaos spent the evenings cuddled into my legs while I read or watched television—he counted on me to fill his bowls and kiss him goodnight. I simply feel like there is cement around my ankles, and the cobwebs in my head are making me crazy. You see, everyone else in the family seems to have ‘moved on’. Although I have so much love in my heart for Chaos, I am not ready to get another dog. I know some day I will, but not yet.

Reading through your message threads has helped a great deal and it is indeed therapeutic to write and reach out to you – you confirm what I already know, we are kindred spirits in that we loved, and were truly loved by our furry family members. We share surprisingly same stories, and I have shed many tears reading yours. Thank you all …