Grief – bendingtheneedle

Missing You Immensely

After more than eleven years of love and devotion, we had to put our beloved Pepsi down on Sunday.

Over the next several weeks, I’ll miss the routine I had with Pepsi for the last eleven years – all the daily interactions – from when I woke to when I went to bed.

Our pets affect us in ways that the people in our lives do not. Our relationship with them isn’t complicated by ego, insecurities, or pettiness. There are no traps, tripwires, or pretentiousness because our pets love us unconditionally. More significantly, they allow us to love with no contingencies—something we’re incapable of doing with people—no matter the relationship.

So, when our pets die, that pure and unblemished love and devotion disappears from our lives. The grief is so profound that it wrecks us for a time.

How We Came to Know and Love Pepsi

In 2013, months after losing our lab, Walter, to Cancer, I found myself searching for shelter dogs. As I remember, it was just a whim; I had no intentions of adopting.

I have no recollection of what I typed for my Google search – but I ended up on this Facebook post:

The post included a link to this video, showing Pepsi and a shelter volunteer:

Pepsi – YouTube

Unfortunately, as often is the case with Pitbull and Pitbull mixes, a NYC animal shelter put this sweet girl on their kill list.

As I watched the video of Pepsi, I felt an immediate obligation to contact Second Chance Rescue to get her off “the list.” So, I corresponded with them through their Facebook page, which initiated a sequence of events (filling out an application, putting down a deposit, and having a consultant visit our home to ensure it was a suitable environment) and ended with the ASPCA transporting Pepsi from Brooklyn, NY, to the Mystic Aquarium parking lot in Mystic CT, where she went from a dog on a video to a cherished member of our family.

Second Chance Rescue of NYC rescues and rehabilitates critically injured and neglected dogs and cats and those at high risk of euthanasia.

The Reilly’s picking up Pepsi in Mystic, CT

Pepsi was our first experience with the pitbull breed. The consultant from Second Chance Rescue told us that Pepsi should be the only dog in the household. We quickly learned of her distrust of other dogs, but of people, her affection was undeniable. She developed a strong bond with our family almost instantly, especially with my wife, Meg.

Pepsi’s mood spanned the spectrum from stoic and intimidating to warm and loving.

Her smiling eyes could melt the coldest of hearts.

She was loving, observant, doting, and intelligent. She was also deaf and, thus, the quietest dog we’ve ever owned.

I work from home, so Pepsi was my constant companion for more than 11 years. She loved resting on the recliner next to my work desk, stretching out on our bed, sleeping and sunbathing on the patio, going for walks, lounging in the yard, and crunching on carrots.

She chased squirrels and bunny rabbits and killed a groundhog behind the shed one summer.

If Meg was outside, Pepsi wanted to be outside. She would dutifully follow Meg to her gardens and lie down in the shade while Meg weeded, planted, or watered. When Meg was done, she would follow her back into the house. Every time Meg went to the bathroom, Pepsi would follow her. If Meg locked the door, you could hear Pepsi knock her head into it from the living room. If Meg happened to leave the latch off, well, she had a visitor.

We will miss Pepsi deeply – we’ll miss seeing her navigate the swivel chair as she walks from the kitchen to the living room in search of hugs – we’ll miss the gentle snoring and weight of her in the bed – we’ll miss the sound of rhythmic hopping as she descends the staircase from the upstairs bedroom to the kitchen, ending with the slight sliding and clicking of her nails when she reaches the kitchen – we’ll miss watching her morning routine, slowly walking the perimeter of the yard, we’ll miss the thump of her tail on the bed or the recliner – we’ll miss how she helped connect us as a family – I think that’s the most magical thing a family dog does – they connect us because we all love them in the same way.

Dogs bring out our humanity and kindness in ways people don’t.

Even before putting Pepsi down, I said that she’d be my last dog. This time around, the slow decline was more challenging to deal with emotionally and physically. In her final months, Meg and I carried Pepsi from room to room, putting off the inevitable as long as we saw a spark of life or tiny moments of enjoyment—until the day they no longer came.

Maybe my feelings will change over time, and my longing for a dog’s love will outweigh the sadness I know I’ll feel when we part. For now, I’ll simply cherish what I had with this wonderful dog.

I’m so grateful for Pepsi’s love and companionship to our family, and I will never forget her.

Rest in Peace, Pep. You were the best!

I Sea You

I watched the tide roll in last night

perched on the jetty

from which you were taken

I listened to the nineties grunge playlist

on the iPod they found next to your

rusted tackle box, abandoned pole,

and dented cooler of ocean water and

discombobulated seabass

before heading back to my empty apartment

full of dusty photos of you and me

Molly in Tow

It was 5:00 AM when she found his contorted body at the bottom of the basement stairs – his eyes wide open and empty of light.

She recollects hearing a tumble and thud in the middle of the night, waking momentarily before dismissing the sound as a fleeting element of a fading dream.

So, she went back to sleep.

She was so startled upon discovering him that she almost fell herself.

Now she stood frozen in the doorframe, unsure what to do.

This situation was a first.

There was nothing from her past to draw upon that might guide her.

She fumbled around the pockets of her bathrobe for her phone while staring down at the crumpled and twisted body of the man she had spent 50 (mostly good) years with.

The gravity of her loss began to rise from within, and she felt rubber-legged and light-headed. She grabbed the railing of the stairs to steady herself.

She entered the security code for her cell, opened the phone app, and stared blankly at the number pad.

“Fuck” she whispered to herself.

Who to call?

If there had been any signs of life, this wouldn’t be a question.

But the 911 emergency had passed — her husband was dead.

She dialed her son, with no idea what she would say when he picked up, so she panicked on the third ring and hung up the phone.

“FUUUUCK!” she screamed, her voice so loud she reflexively looked down at her husband, thinking the sheer amplification of sound might snap him out of his death, which it did not. However, she did wake her dog, Molly, who now stirs upstairs.

Her phone rings. It’s her son. She bursts out crying as she hears Moly coming down from upstairs.

“Pull yourself together,” she commanded before answering the phone on the tenth ring.

“Mom, is everything okay?”

“No. It’s not. I’m sorry I hung up on you!” sobbing uncontrollably.

“Mom, what’s wrong!!??”

Your father fell down the stairs. I think he’s dead.

She knew he was dead.

She wasn’t sure why she said, “I think he’s dead” – maybe she was trying to protect her son from the devastation she was feeling? Was a fifteen-minute drive with false hope better than one with the hard truth?

There was a prolonged silence, followed by “I’m on my way.”

She still hasn’t found the courage to go to him. She’s still at the top of the stairs, and he’s on the cold basement floor.

Molly sits at her feet, wagging her tail, looking up at her and wondering, “What are we doing standing in the doorway?

She pats Molly gently on her head and says sadly, “Daddy’s gone.” Her moment with Molly is abruptly interrupted by the crunch of car tires on the gravel driveway.

She hears the car door slam, followed by a rapid knock on the front door.

She glances again at her husband before heading to the living room with Molly in tow.

Hamas Needs to Go

Hamas has been at the helm of the Government in Gaza since 2007.

What have they done for the Palestinian people?

The Hamas Charter explicitly calls for the obliteration of Israel. Hamas is not interested in negotiating or coexisting with Israel. Any talks with Israel that might result in a better life for Gazans would be detrimental to Hamas’s hold on power — because peaceful coexistence with Israel negates Hamas’s primary objective, which is to kill Jews.

Hamas militants are fueled by religious hatred, laid bare in the brutal and vicious nature of their attacks on Israeli citizens. When you believe God commands you to slaughter your enemies, you do so with zeal. The greater the depravity by which they murder, the more glory to their God, or so it seems.

Even if you blame Israel entirely for the plight of the Palestinians in Gaza, how can anyone justify the terroristic and vicious nature of the Hamas attack on October 7th, 2023?

I understand that Israeli policies that expand settlements and displace Palestinians exacerbate the hardships felt in Gaza.

I understand the Israeli government has contributed to Palestinians’ indignity for generations.

I understand that Israel has killed many innocent Palestinians in military operations over the years.

Does all that understanding about the indignity, the generational hopelessness, and the death and destruction at the hands of the Israeli military – justify Hamas’s attack on innocent civilians?

No, it does not – because Hamas has done nothing on behalf of Palestinians to move the needle toward peace.

They offer no hope. They are the enemy of hope.

There’s a palpable dread for what’s about to go down in Gaza.

Palestinian citizens and the hostages taken by Hamas are pawns in a never-ending religious, ethnic, and geopolitical dispute that Hamas has no interest in resolving.

That’s why they need to go.

Dogs and Grief

pexels-gotta-be-worth-it-1431557

We’re a dog family.

I had dogs growing up as a kid. My wife and I got our first dog soon after buying our first house. His name was Wayne, but we changed it to Kane because who names their dog WAYNE?

Your first dog is the dog by which all others are measured, and Kane set the bar high. We adopted him from the Potter League for Animals in Middletown, RI, where Meg and I worked before we started dating.

Kane was about a year old when we adopted him as a full-grown shepherd mix. I remember approaching him in his cage – he crouched slightly and turned his head quickly towards my hand as I tried to clip the leash to his collar. He intended to inform, not injure – a way of stating we’re not acquainted well enough for you to approach so casually. His eyes said, “I’ve seen others leave on a leash and never come back.”

Kane’s reaction would have been a deal-breaker for some people – an excuse to walk away or visit the friendly Beagle-mix two cages down. But I was not willing to give up so easily. So, I backed up slowly and sat down at the opposite corner of the cage. Kane and I regarded one another like potential enemies who might one day become best friends – a future to be determined in the next few minutes.

I maintained an un-threatening posture, relaxed, head down, making eye contact only occasionally. Kane seemed skeptical but open to negotiation. Finally, after several minutes of détente, I patted my hand gently on the cold concrete floor, gesturing for Kane to make the journey across the cell. He wagged his tail slowly, still unsure what to make of me. Then, Kane stood, lowered his head somewhat submissively, and approached slow and steady.

When he sat, he regarded me in a friendly manner, dissipated skepticism replaced with a cautious trust.

This time when I went to put the leash on, Kane lowered his head and gently leaned in – and that was it. The deal was sealed. I knew that instant that Kane would be coming home with me.

Of all the dogs we have had, Kane was the most loyal. We would let him out the front door, and he would sit or lie down on the steps – if he ever wanted to run off, he never let on. So for about 2 years, it was just Meg, Me, and Kane. We took him to Colt state park for long walks and many high school baseball fields to play fetch – he bonded quickly and totally with us.

Even though he was our first, Kane knew (instinctively, it seemed) that when baby number one arrived, he would be relegated to a lower rung on the ladder. He accepted his demotion gracefully – if such a thing is possible for a dog.

He was a constant companion to Jake and Liam growing up. When our boys ventured across the street, Kane would always tag along, trotting slowly behind them, setting up watch on a corner of the neighbor’s lot – he would never intrude on the kickball or whiffle ball or basketball or football or Pokémon card trading activities. Instead, he would stay close and observe – with an air of guardianship and responsibility.

At around 12, Kane began suffering from congestive heart failure. I remember driving him to Ocean State Veterinary Clinic several times that year, where a vet would work a needle into Kane’s chest to draw fluid from his lungs. It was miraculous how well he responded – before falling ill again. The vet informed us the procedure would eventually stop working because scar tissue forms sand prevents them from being able to draw fluid.

Futility and the inevitable snuggled up to one another. We knew we were running out of time with Kane. We knew we would have to put him down.

When that time came, I was 42, old enough to have experienced some loss in life – loved ones, a parent, relatives, friends, and colleagues.

The longer you stick around, the better acquainted you get with death. Each time death pays a visit to someone you know, you gain perspective, begrudgingly accepting that death is part of the equation.

I’ve never felt more bereft with grief than when we had to put Kane down. A profound grief that wrecked me – left me in a heap for weeks.

We’ve had to part with two other dogs since Kane – and the grief was no less – not one scintilla. The begrudging acceptance that death is part of the equation didn’t soften the blow.

It was still like being hit in the heart with a hammer.

So why does the family dog’s death hurt so much? What about our relationships with our dogs make their death so poignantly and consistently painful?

I think it has to do with the dynamics – the one-sidedness of the relationship. This is not to say that we don’t love our dogs – we do – but they love us more (or at least that’s what registers in our brains), and they love us “regardless” – regardless of our faults, foibles, and frailties.

Over that 10 to 12-year span, we experience (over and over and over again) unconditional love and non-judgmental friendship, which (let’s face it) is so unlike the relationships we have with the people in our lives (even the ones we love the most – especially the ones we love the most).

Our experiences (the good, bad, and indifferent) are processed and stored as memories. Our brain never sleeps, so all this processing and storing is happening 24 7. This means that every time we’re greeted by our dog, tail wagging, eyes smiling, regardless of how shitty our day was or whether we ignored him — all those “I’m so happy to see you” moments are stored in memory.

And when it comes time to put our dogs down, the packaging containing every one of those experiences unravels, the memories spill out, and we’re forced to face the loss of the one relationship in our lives that seemed pure to us.

How could this not wreck you?