On May 16th, 2018, I ended the life of my most beloved friend.
I don’t expect everyone to understand what a dog’s life, and death, could mean to me: loss is different for everyone, as is the way we love. Losing Bobo has been the most difficult, heart opening and existentially challenging experience of my life so far.
Yet, for many wasted months I felt a secret shame that I loved a dog so deeply, that I was grieving so hard. Thankfully, on the six month anniversary of his death, I joyously let that go. With out the shame to hold me back, I can now share the depth of my grief for him openly and without apology.
After that goofy yellow beast took his last breath in my arms, I felt my inner light dim. I felt my will to embrace the fullness of life diminish. Maybe that’s hard to hear, or seems dramatic, but it is my truth.
These days, I often think about people who have lost their husband or wife, or some other dear partner, and lose their will to live too. I understand. Even as someone who identifies as a lover of life, who admires sunrises and sunsets, who hikes into mountains or stays up to watch the full moon, and who plans on living a long and full existence, I have a new empathy for those who stop wanting to go on.
I found myself thinking things like, if there’s an afterlife, and I get to see him, well then I’d be happy to go soon. I sat back and watched these thoughts go by and wondered at them. Where did they come from? I know they’re just thoughts, that they aren’t everything, and yet at times they feel as real as a rock resting on my open palm. I let them pass, let them fill my heart with compassion for every soul who has lost another.
I think about him everyday, sometimes many times. I didn’t know that the bereaved do that. Often, especially in the beginning, I’d climb into bed and open my iPhone. I’d grab the red and white paisley yaks wool blanket that I bought in a small roadside stall in northern India, and wrap my shoulders in it. It is the same blanket I wrapped him in the morning he died, and it goes everywhere with me now.
I would go to my pictures and select the folder that says “Bobo”. This folder is one of my favourite places, where I could get lost in him for a while… not too long: maybe an hour or two or three. I’d lose myself in his golden fur, in his silly dog-grin, and in the way he’d make that “yowow-ing” sound when it was time for dinner.
I was careful not to have the volume too loud, I didn’t want anyone to know I was still losing myself there. I’d usually sob, then laugh, then sob again, as I got closer, picture by picture, video by video, to the day of his death. I’d watch him as he grew older, his run slowing to a wobbly walk, his fur turning from gold to white. I’d watch him get tired and slow, and eventually I’d arrive at the last day. In those videos, we lay on the floor, side by side, in the dawn light.
That morning, before he had any seizures, before I took him to the vet, I already knew he was dying. I knew because I had looked into his deep brown eyes and asked… “are you dying buddy?” He’d looked at me, his pupils a deep abyss, his head heavy. He’d never really looked at me like that.
I thought that meant he was saying, “Yes, Mum, I’m ready,” though I’ll never really know. Often, I shake with fear and regret (and responsibility) that I ended his life too soon. Could we have had another day, another week, another month? A grieving mind plays tricks like that.
Always, I’d finish at the last photo. In it, I’ve just left the vet and his breath-less body behind. I’m kneeling on his favourite beach, facing out to the ocean, where a huge horizontal rainbow lies across a thunderhead. I’m trying to comprehend that I’ll never feel that fur again, never sink my hands into the warm folds around his neck. But I’m strangely elated too, for just a moment, as I’m sure that this magical rainbow is him. I’m grappling with the emptiness, desperate to believe that he is painting the sky, that he’s saying he’s crossing the rainbow bridge to wait somewhere for me.
As time made it’s linear march, I got lost in the memories less and less. In the beginning, I entered that folder almost every day, then slowly, I stopped needing to go there so much. It’s not that thoughts of him come any less, it’s that they stop sweeping me away.
I’ve become aware of the persistent presence of him, and for me, this has rearranged the clock. I have felt, over and over, how inextricably woven the past is into each moment. Even as I am aware of a breath, or a sound, he is part of me. If he still exists, in my every day present, then what does that say about our linear perception of time?
I feel my will to embrace life slowly (bit by bit) returning. My inner light beginning to flicker and grow. There are many days that I still cry, but the longing for his physical form has lessened, as I accept that we can never have a dead thing back. It has surprised me, over and over again, how difficult it is to accept something we’ve always known as true.
Out of all the places that I’ve been in my grief, none were as dark as when I felt ashamed of it. Those secret whispers in my ear that I could be doing this better, that I could be less attached, more positive, or stronger. The truth is, every moment of my sadness was perfect, as was every single tear.
I leave you with this: never be ashamed of what you love, or how thoroughly you grieve. If you want to hold on, hold on. If you want to let go, let go.
To my silly, sweet companion; to my greatest source of joy, inspiration and love for thirteen damn good years…
…I will always love you.
RIP Bobo
