I have always told myself that I am not a “dog person”. And I really believed it, even after having had several dogs. In fact, I could be heard telling friends and neighbors as recently as a few months ago that after our dog was gone, we would not be getting one again. I had stacked up quite a bit of evidence to make this claim: I don’t spend 100% of my time with our dog, I feel irritated when the dog barks really loudly or comes into the house covered in mud or wakes me up at night because of a storm; I don’t take pictures of myself and my dog; our dog isn’t part of our Christmas cards; I don’t enjoy cleaning up after the dog. It’s a pain when we want to travel, my mom has dog allergies, dogs are expensive, they are a huge time commitment, and the list would go on and on.
Then on Sunday, August 9 of this year, we unexpectedly lost our golden retriever Berkeley. I say unexpectedly in that when we dropped him off at the kennel for our annual trip to Okoboji, he seemed to be in good health. Given, he was a 12 year old retriever and we knew he wasn’t going to be around forever. Some understandable decline had occurred with age (he did not jump up on the bed as easily, he started to have some extra fatty deposits, his fur was getting whiter around his face). After a very brief, acute illness, he was gone and we were devastated.
After Berkeley died, for at least a week or more, I couldn’t fall asleep at night without thinking of him. Quite a few thoughts and emotions were swirling around in my head and through my heart. Had he suffered? Had he been sick at the kennel and no one noticed or bothered to tell us? Did we miss something? Well-meaning friends and acquaintances who were trying to help told me he was probably too old to kennel and the stress had been too much for him. (This did not help; it made it worse). Guilt, anger, and sadness enveloped me, especially at night when Berkeley’s absence was palatable. At night time, he would always jump into bed and lay beside me until Jason came in. He would then quickly jump down and lay on his own bed next to ours.
After the first week, I found myself going through basic routines as if we still had a dog. I closed the baby gate and pocket doors before I left the house to keep Berk out of the carpeted part of our home, only to realize I did not need to worry about that anymore. I made sure to close the garage door so he wouldn’t unknowingly get out. I started to run up from the basement to greet him when I thought I heard the familiar jingling of his collar and dog tags. Early in the morning as I left to go to the gym, I would step over the space where his bed was to avoid stepping on him as I gave Jason a goodbye kiss. The mail came without incident; no bark to alert us it was here. I slept through the first storm in a long time, not even realizing we had one. No Berkeley to wake us up.
The weekend he died, we coincidentally saw the movie Inside Out. We made the connection as a family about how Berkeley represented both Sadness and Joy. Just as the family learned in the movie, we were experiencing Sadness because we had also experienced Joy through knowing and loving Berkeley. In the 24 hours before we lost Berk, I snuggled up and petted his soft, fluffy fur and talked soothingly to him. I told him he was my baby and my Berkeley Bear, like I had always done. He still tried to wag his enthusiastic tail at me. Our boys and Jason did the same and we all told him the things we loved about him. We drove to the farm together and buried him right next to where we buried our first rescue dog, Jazzie Catherine. We said a prayer and thanked God for Berkeley and all the Joy he brought to our lives. We each shared a special memory we had with him.
We all experience grief differently. Our youngest wanted to get another dog right away. Our oldest said he was never going to get another dog again because it hurt too much when we lost Berk. I mentioned the idea of a neighborhood memorial service for Berk with the neighborhood kids like happened for one of our neighbor’s cats; our boys were not ready for that. We read the book The Ten Good Things About Barney by Judith Viorst. Our boys really don’t want to talk about Berk much yet; the pain is still very raw.
Last week, Jason and I both looked at one another and admitted we both really, really miss not only Berkeley but just having a dog around. We miss the companionship, the playfulness, the watchdog spirit, the happy-go-lucky willingness to always please. I realized other things we miss, too, like how much we experience nature through the eyes of our dog. Watching Berk run through the crinkly, crunchy fall leaves while we are searching for ready-to-burst milkweed pods was always a delight. His playfulness in winter when running through snow drifts at breakneck speed was contagious. Those things will all be different this year. Not bad, just different.
It has been six weeks since we lost Berkeley. We are not jumping into dog ownership right away. However, we have allowed ourselves to start looking at Petfinder.com again, researching various breeds, and thinking about that backyard fence we always wanted to build. I probably will never be one of those people who has my dog’s name on our address labels. Or get my dog’s picture taken with Santa. I likely will never cheerily pick up dog poop or wait in eager anticipation for the seasonal shedding of my dog’s furry coat. (Not that there is anything wrong with those things). However, I have learned that despite the potential drawbacks, the positives far outweigh the negatives. I have revamped my definition of what being a “dog person” means. I think I am one of those people after all.
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