When you lose a pet as an adult, they tell you nothing.
I was told nothing. But to you, I will tell you her name was Carrie. She was my first dog.
I will try to tell you everything they never told me.
No one tells you that you’ll fall to the floor in sobs when you hold their collar. They don’t tell you how loud silence is.
No one tells you that your phone will ring on a normal Tuesday on a lunch break or the way your skin prickles. They don’t tell that you’ll feel cold, or about the sudden rage that fills your heart. She’s gone, so why does the sun shine so brightly?
No one will tell you how you need to call your boss. They won’t tell you how you’ll enter your PTO, but you want to enter bereavement leave instead. After all, that’s what it is.
No one tells you about the guilt you’ll feel. They won’t tell you when it strikes your body, or how you ran behind and didn’t get to say goodbye.
No one tells you that pet crematoriums exist. They will ask you questions like, “Do you want one clay paw print or two?”
No one tells you that you can use pewter urns, embossed boxes, or jewelry. They don’t tell you that they can turn her ashes into stones that remind you of the river rocks where you’d sometimes take your walks. They won’t tell you howpart of the decision is based on the size and weight of your pet’s ashes. And they won’t tell you how irrationally angry you’ll become at math.
You don’t have a scale that measures the love you have for her, so how can they reduce it to ounces?
No one will tell you that you’ll reach for the lint roller to get the fur off your dress pants, but you don’t need it. And that you’ll do it every morning.
No one will tell you what to say when the groomer calls to confirm their appointment. They won’t remind you to call the vet because they won’t need their shots. And one will tell you what to do with the rest of the dog food.
No one will tell you all the things you want to say to them.
“Carrie, you can eat all my shoes; I have too many, anyway. You can bark as loudly as you want to. You can jump on my bed when I fold the laundry. I’ll scratch your ears. I want to see your brown curls fade to gray.”
I used to say, “There’s always tomorrow.” And yes, the date on the calendar will change, and Tuesday turns to Wednesday which turns to Thursday. But what no one told me was that I wouldn’t get another tomorrow with her.
I didn’t understand what it meant to lose a pet before Carrie. No one told me she’d become my family. They didn’t tell me she’d become one of the loves of my life. No one told me how empty I’d feel as soon as I heard, “She’s gone.”
No one told me I’d go to my Jeep at 2 a.m. when it was 23 degrees outside to get your collar because I didn’t want you to be cold and alone at night.
There is no roadmap when you lose a pet. You won’t find an instruction manual for losing a part of your heart and how deeply it hurts because people don’t understand love unless it’s equated with humans.
No one told me I would only have 10 years with her.
So no, no one told me.
After all, no one can tell you how your heart will break.
Carrie, I’ve loved you for a decade, and I’ll love you the rest of the days.
Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels
