I once had a terrible case of the flu. In addition to the body aches and chills and stuff, I was puking my brains out all over the place all the time. The worst part of it was that it would happen with no warning; one second I was fine, and then I'd suddenly feel my stomach turn, and I'd be throwing up whatever was left in my stomach from the last time. I couldn't control it at all, and after about 12 hours of it, my neck and throat just ached like they'd been kicked by a mule wearing 1930s baseball spikes.
For the last 24 hours, I've experienced the same thing, but instead of throwing up, I'm hit by these unexpected waves of incredibly powerful grief that seem to start in my stomach and explode into heartbreaking sobs in a matter of seconds. My whole body aches, but my throat, neck, and shoulders are especially sore and tired. I know I slept last night, but I don't feel like I got a whole lot of actual rest.
This morning, I made it about 5 minutes before the first wave of sorrow hit me, but at least I knew what set it off: automatically looking for Ferris on her little doggie cot in the living room, where she'd greet me every morning, wagging just the tip of her tail, until I came over to pet her. Since then, it's been less like I'm crying every five minutes and more like there are these occasional breaks when I'm not. Maybe my body needs time to make and store new tears, I don't know.
I went to the comic shop to get my mind off of things. I haven't been in almost a year because I've been so busy, but figured I'd pick up some trades and recent issues of my friends' books, so I would have something to do. Besides, going to the comic shop always makes me happy.
I picked up a lot of books, and decided to give Green Lantern, which was one of my favorite titles in the 80s, a look. My comic guy recommended this one particular trade as an entry point, so I added it to the pile. When I went next door for some falafel at Zankou, I opened it up while I waited for my order to come up. In the first panel, Hal Jordan is talking to someone named Ferris. I felt the sob rise in my chest, but I caught it in my throat and managed to keep it down with some deep breaths until I got into the car a little bit later.
It's been an extraordinarily difficult day. Our other dog, Riley, who we got as a companion for Ferris when Ferris was 2, has realized that something is very wrong in the house, and keeps looking for Ferris. All day today she's never strayed very far from my side, and though I'm aware that I may be projecting and anthropomorphizing, it sure does seem like she has sadness in her eyes.
Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and say thank you to everyone who has offered condolences for our loss. Ferris was our dog, but she was as much a part of our family as any human, and loved us unconditionally. There is a gigantic open wound in my heart and a vast empty space in my house that feels like it's never going to heal (even though I know it eventually will.) I've always felt like telling someone "I'm sorry for your loss" wasn't ever enough, but being on this side of it, I can tell you that it's more comforting than I ever expected.
I’ve been reading for a couple years, but now I’m de-lurking to offer my sympathies. You always write such touching stories that I think that you must “feel” very deeply — not just about your beautiful dog, and your family, but about all things. That’s a wonderful characteristic, but so hard sometimes. One of the best parts is that you can feel out loud for those of us who bottle things up, and that kind of sharing brings life.
I wore your “How We Roll” t-shirt today in honor of you and Ferris. Thank you for sharing part of her life with us.
Be well,
chinkle
As far as I’m concerned, pets are adopted children and losing them is no less painful than losing a human child. I never knew Ferris in person, but she was a familiar part of this “family” in your little corner of cyberspace, and let’s just say that I need to replace my tissue box after reading your last two posts.
I will give you a virtual *hug* and know that I hugged my own furbabies extra long today.
when you loose a pet it is loosing a member of the family. The feelings are not tempered by the anger or resentment or other mixed emotions with people. It is a pure loss. Probably the only time we can really experience those emotions untempered by anything else.
My mother says the saddest thing she ever saw was my sister crying over her lost cat (she had to have her put down).
thinking of you.
Mr. Wheaton,
Sorry to hear of your loss. Felt some of the same feelings in the last few years. That ache and pain. Never truly goes away. And I think it never should. There will always be that sense of loss. Even when it dims. The possibility that it might strike. And all it means is that we loved someone. And that we miss them. And that they are remembered in us.
“Love is our response to our highest values.” – A. Rand
-Rob
Wil, I’m very sorry for what you’re going through. At the risk of triggering another bout of grief, I wanted to give you this. When you’re book, Just a Geek, was optioned by O’Reilly you had a contest asking folks to design a cover for you (you had no control over that, but it was a fun contest). I made this cover featuring Ferris because we all knew, even then, how much she meant to you.
I feel your pain. My Dog, Huedo (Blonde, in spanish, I think). Passed a few years ago (old age). Haven’t had the heart to get another. Plus, I now live in a small apartment, and that’s a rotten thing to do to a human, let alone a dog. We still miss him.
I lost my last dog while I was stationed in the Army, some 15 years ago. Even now, I can remember how much it hurt, and how helpless I felt.
Let yourself grieve, and find what bit of solace you can in your sorrow. It may sound odd, but as you experience your sadness, your mind and heart will find a way to cope with things a little faster.
You’re right, of course… it seems that saying, “My condolences,” never seems enough, and I’m sure most of us wish we could do more for you. We wish you the best, and we grieve with you and your family.
Wil,
My deepest sympathies to you and your family for the loss of your beloved Ferris. I know the pain you are going through and understand how painful it is.
My prayers and hugs go out to you all. A special hug for Riley who is feeling the loss too but can’t talk about it.
I hate Rainbow Bridge too. So as a non-barfy replacement, may I offer up something a friend of mine who is a vet wrote recently when she lost her dog to cancer: http://www.pawcurious.com/2009/07/oh-emmett/
(And background, explaining who Kevin is: http://www.pawcurious.com/2009/07/eat-check/)
I know you had a difficult day today but I hope that sharing your feelings with us (no matter how hard it was), strangers, I hope it helped ease some of your pain & gave you a little comfort. I know for a fact that when you’re going through a difficult situation, it’s always easier to go through it with others than by yourself. I’m sure we all know what you’re going through, whether it was a beloved or someone dear to our heart. Just take it day by day… Thanks for sharing your loss & pain because you never know when someone just might take comfort in your words. Don’t worry the sun will shine again to dry those tears, till then…let the rain pour down.
Wil,
I want you to know you’re not alone. My partner and myself rescued a dog from a Wal-Mart parking lot in 1997. She was 2 then. She was covered in mud, her hair was matted, and she smelled of terrible things we won’t mention here.
Dad, who was picking up groceries, was approached by the “greeter” who said, “You should take that poor girl home” (speaking of the dog). He said, “If she follows me to the van, AND gets in, then she can come home with me.” And, as if on cue, her ears perked up, dad walked briskly to the van, opened the door, she hopped up, crawled over the center console and into the passenger seat. Patiently waiting, she looked at dad, head cocked to the side as if to ask, “Well? We gonna get this show on the road or what?”
We named her Poochie, because we weren’t going to keep her. And now, 12 years later, she’s an old lady who coughs a whole lot, she’s gone nearly blind in both eyes, and she can’t hear worth a damn. But that’s okay. Just to keep her on her toes, we rearrange the furniture. It’s mean, but it gives her something to look forward to.
So, when she goes to that great open park in the sky, we will be in the exact same spot you are in right this moment. Crying until our eyes feel like they are going to fall out of our heads, snot streaming from both nostrils, and searing headaches all around.
Our love goes out to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Blake
I doubt you’re anthropomorphizing Wil. Dogs can be very perceptive. Riley knows something is wrong, and probably knows that her friend is gone. Dogs go through grief just as much as we do. Love on Riley as much as you want. It helps.
I understand what you’re going through (went through it just four months ago, when my dog Harley died), and I know how hard it is. It will get easier, it just takes time. My thoughts are with you guys.
Wil,
So sorry to hear about your dog. Our family cat Mog died several years ago…my Dad and I were swapping stories about him yesterday. The pain never really goes away but it does get better with time.
All the Best,
Nicolas
It’s been 10 years since my family’s border collie Molly passed away, and I’m still stuck with waves of sadness at times. She was a better person than most people, and she was a big part of my life for much of my growing up years. I mourn her loss still just as I still mourn the passing of my grandmother when I was 9 and two of my closest friends when I was 24. She was my best friend, and she was family. That pain won’t ever go away completely, and it can strike you at the strangest of times.
One day, though, these waves of sadness will be tempered with glimpses of the very best moments you had with Ferris. So while you’ll feel sadness at her loss, you’ll also feel the sweetness and joy you and Ferris shared while she was alive.
I’m sorry for your loss, Wil.
Hi Will,
I can totally relate to you, at the moment I cry whenever I take a look at my own dog. Yesterday we decided that it was time that she was put down, so it is going to happen in the next few days, and I keep looking at her and thinking what a great dog she is – and how am I going to go through the day without her by my side? And worst of all – how do I tell my 2 year old boy that his dog won’t be here when he comes home?
I have mixed feelings about ‘being there’ b/c of my experiences of being & not being there with some of my dogs. The most recent one, DJ – just a month ago – was the most difficult. I was there when she was born 15 years ago on my sisters bed (she got a new one in a matter of days). It felt so surreal and so sad being there with DJ. I knew it was coming b/c she had been displaying the same behaviors her daddy did during his last days. I cried some, but not as much as our other dogs, which felt weird to me. I think I shut myself down a bit b/c I didn’t want to fully comprehend that I saw this dog literally from birth thru death (and I did uncomfortable catch a glimpse of conception, too). Then, the day came when I picked up her ashes. I still can’t believe that those ashes are all that is left of my little old lady, my puppy. Everyday since then I’ve had a moment when I had to stop what I was doing & deal with my grief. I hate hearing that other people also have to go through this. It is inevitable, I suppose. I mean, when we get our pets we know they won’t live forever. But still, knowing how awful it feels, I just don’t want others to feel that. I am so sorry that you are going through this now.
My mixed feelings are because something just disturbs me about seeing my puppy’s eyes after. His/her tail not waggling even a little bit. At the same time, tho, my dog Aleutia died all alone when the whole family was out. That seems so sad to me, that she was alone. Sometimes I wish I could go back to that moment & hold her so she wouldn’t be alone and possibly scared. Poor Ferris. I hate the idea of you seeing your beloved Ferris die b/c I know the love for dogs through experience & I know your love for her through your writing. But I find I’m a little happy for Ferris that her daddy was there making it maybe a bit less scary for her. Maybe. Or it’s just something I want to believe for her sake b/c maybe we do anthropomorphize our beloved pets.
But, about Riley, I don’t think you are anthropomorphizing. My sister’s dog – Elle – is most certainly saddened by the loss of DJ. My sister stopped by our dad’s house for something & had Elle with her. Elle ran to the spot where DJ would usually be found. But she wasn’t there. So Elle ran to the next likely spot, and the next. Then, when she couldn’t find DJ, she whimpered a bit, when to the front door & just sat there with her ears pushed back, instead of the usual high, pointy Vulcan-esque appearance they usually have.
Geez. I remember your post about how your wife had rescued Ferris & how her name came to be. I’m sorry for you, your family & Riley.
Ferris was a great dog. Never met her, but I’m sure of it b/c I know dogs & I read your works. Ferris was a great dog.
I’m not sure there are ever adequate words to describe when someone you love has left your life. Ferris seemed like a really great dog. Thank you for sharing your stories with us…and I am very, very sorry for your loss.
Oh, jeepers man. As a dog owner myself I know exactly what you’re going through. So sorry.
Anyway, this poem said a lot to me at a similar time, so I’ll pass it on:
There is one best place
to bury a dog.
If you bury him in this spot, he will
come to you when you call –
come to you over the grim, dim frontier
of death, and down the well-remembered
path, and to your side again.
And though you call a dozen living
dogs to heel, they shall not growl at
him, nor resent his coming,
for he belongs there.
People may scoff at you, who see
no lightest blade of grass bent by his
footfall, who hear no whimper, people
who may never really have had a dog.
Smile at them, for you shall know
something that is hidden from them,
and which is well worth the knowing.
The one best place to bury a good
dog is in the heart of his master.
By Ben Hur Lampman
from the Portland Oregonian Sept. 11, 1925
[AKA “If A Dog Be Well Remembered”]
[AKA “Where TO Bury A Dog”]
Been there, felt the pain, still feel it but also remember the great and not so great times I spent with favorite pets through the years. As time passes, I find the more annoying the habit they had in life, the more amusing and fond I am of it now.
Much as you will probably feel in the not so near future (or so I hope.)
Give Riley a hug, cry together, and have a good look over your archives for Ferris tales: http://wilwheaton.typepad.com/wwdnbackup/2009/06/an-all-too-familiar-scene.html
I find it interesting the difference between people’s emotions (or lack of). Based on your description, you have shown more grief over your dog dying then I showed when my own father died. (and I was 14 at the time so more prone to emotions than I am now)
Maybe I really am as cold as I’m always hearing. Anyway, sorry you’re hurting.
I missed a week of your blog, and read your sad news just this morning. Ferris was like our dog, too, and the news hit me instantly. I hope that soon you will begin to focus a little more on the joy Ferris brought to your life and begin to heal.
Much love,
Soo
I wasn’t going to post because I figured reading ‘sorry for your loss’ from someone you don’t know couldn’t really mean much even though I am very sorry for your loss. Having read that last paragraph, I decided to post.
I’ve enjoyed reading you post about Ferris for years. She’ll be missed by more people than you realise.
I hope the hurt gets easier soon.
When I lost my dog back in high school, our other dog really seemed to be grieving with us. She was constantly looking for him.
I am really sorry for your loss, loosing a pet is really really really hard. I cried a bit when I read both of your entries just remembering what it was like. Like with the death of a person, you never get over it, you just find a new normal.
Keeping you and your family in my thoughts and prayers.
When I had to put Charlie to sleep, I cried for 2 weeks straight and then on and off for the next couple of months. It’s been 2 years and still occationally something will trigger it and I’ll be crying nonstop. It would take will power to stop and then of course it would happen again without warning. You gave Ferris something wonderful when you took her in and she gave you something back. Uncontional love. It gets better, it just takes time. If you need to cry do it, don’t hold back the tears. Remember one thing. “Time heals all wounds.”
I’m so sorry to hear about your wonderful dog and find it really difficult to come up with anything to say at all – as you said, it’s like losing a family member, and I can’t think of any way (or see any reason) to suppress the tears and grief.
When I was twelve or so, my first cat just vanished one day. I put up pictures of him with my phone number on every street lantern in the neighborhood, with no result – and I never wanted to allow myself to cry and grief because it would’ve been like abandoning the last bit of hope that he might be alive somewhere. It wasn’t until years later that my parents revealed the fact that we’d lived close to a crazy old freak who actually shot several cats because he wanted to “protect the birds”. I cried for weeks because it seemed likely that my pet was among the victims, but in the end I’ll never know for sure. All that’s left to hope for is that he didn’t suffer.
I really, really can imagine how you feel, and I hope that maybe you CAN actually find some comfort in the fact that you were with Riley when she passed away, even if it doesn’t feel like it now. She had a wonderful life with all of you, and you with her. Thanks for sharing your time with her with your readers, and my kindest regards and some virtual hugs to you, your family and Riley, may she rest in peace!
Sorry for your loss, Wil. Our relationship with pets is pure and uncomplicated, and so is our grief when they pass. That can make it very immediate and overwhelming.
On the death of Jake, a true and loving companion to my wife and me:
“My dog was like every other dog in that he was unlike any other dog.”
Grieve a while, then go out and get a new dog (impossible to think about right now, I know), who will be unlike any other dog, except that she will be awesome because she is yours. You owe it to yourself and Ferris — ’cause don’t you think she’d want other dogs to have a cool family like yours?
Carry on.
I’m so sorry that Ferris is gone, Wil. I’m also so glad that she was able to bring joy to your family, and that you were able to bring joy to her, too.
Thanks also for sharing this with us. My dog is seriously ill right now, and I know I’m going to have to go through the same thing soon. It terrifies me, but at least other people understand how it feels.
Wil, I understand about the explosive grief. After I lost Tommy, I cried almost constantly. I couldn’t understand how one person could produce so many tears; I never seemed to run dry.
I had to put Tommy down on a Friday evening and I thought after crying all weekend, I’d be ready to return to work. That didn’t happen. I was actually out of work for four days because I just could NOT stop weeping. [When I returned to work on Friday, my boss gave me a disciplinary notice for “excessive absenteeism” – and I worked for a CHURCH. Some compassion there, huh?]
After burying Tommy on that Friday evening, I went out to sit by his grave at sunrise on Saturday morning. I couldn’t understand why the sun was rising, why the world was still turning. I was broken, and it didn’t make sense to me that everything else wasn’t broken as well.
For weeks, I looked for him, had to stop myself from calling for him. The tears would start all over again when I’d look at the place where his food bowl had been, remembered his favorite napping spots. He’s been gone nearly four years now, but still, I’m weeping as I write this.
I lost my father about a year before Tommy died. I cried more for Tommy than I did for my own father. I thought I was insane or cold but, really, it makes some sense. I had Tommy for 13 years, and I cared for him as you would a child – made sure he was healthy, fed, safe. Too, my father had cancer and his end was expected, something for which I could prepare. Tommy had been ill, but we thought it was simply a parasite – not a tumor that filled nearly his entire stomach. That news was a huge shock.
I remember very vividly being at the vet’s office, sitting numbly in the exam room, having just been told Tommy had that huge tumor and there really wasn’t anything that could be done. The exam room was near the waiting area; even with the door closed, I could hear what was happening in the lobby. I heard a young boy happily exclaim, “Buddy! Buddy can come home now!” And it was such a jarring sensation, feeling such devastation while hearing such joy.
Besides the grief, I also felt a lot of regret. Wishing I’d spent more time with Tommy, wishing I’d hugged him more, petted him more. Wishing I’d had one more day.
Eventually, you will start to feel better, Wil. Your world will still have cracks in it, but it will be mostly whole again. You will still cry from time to time, even after years have passed and you think you should be “over” it. You will still look for her in her favorite spots, and it will still surprise you when she isn’t there. You will still see her from the corner of your eye, only to have her vanish when you turn to look. And at some point, there will come a time when you can remember something amusing about her and have it bring a smile rather than tears.
Peace to you during this wrenching time, Wil. You’ll be in my thoughts.
Sorry seems so in adequate to say but I am truly sorry for your loss. You shared your stories and love of Farris with us and now we share your grief hoping it eases the pain even just a little. As a writer who inspired me to write again, thank you and my heart goes out to you and your family.
Wil, so sorry for your loss. My little dog, who lived to be 16 years old, has been gone for over 10 years, but she still has a special place in my heart, so I understand how much it hurts.
As time goes on, when you least expect it, you’ll see or hear something that will remind you of Ferris, and you’ll smile and remember how special she was.
And as my youngest niece told me when my dog died, “Don’t worry….they have lots of Milk Bones in heaven.”
Wil, you should write a book about Ferris [and about your other beloved pets as well]. I know you probably have enough anecdotes about her and your other critters to fill a good-sized book and, given the outpouring of affection and comfort you’re receiving upon Ferris’ passing, it would probably be pretty popular.
It might be cathartic…when you’re ready for cartharsis, of course. I know when I lost Tommy, I was a little selfish or protective about his memories – sounds weird, but I guess I just wanted to keep him for myself for a while longer or something.
If you cleared a profit on the book, you could donate the proceeds to a rescue organization or animal shelter. I think that would be a nice tribute to Ferris.
Anyway, just a thought….
It’s been a month and my cat Meeko still looks for his pal Aslan. I also see in his eyes the question “Where is my friend?” as he sits and sleeps in the old spots. They were always with each other. Best wishes through the pain.
Other people have said it better, but I just wanted to add another voice; I’m so sorry for you loss, to you and your family .
I am so sorry. Those of us who feel like our pets are our kids understand what you are going through. My girl is almost 14 and I am dreading the day I will have to deal with this too.
Wil, after reading about your loss and reaction relating to Ferris, and even though I know logically that you’re all grown up, I can’t help but see you as little twelve-year-old Willy Wheaton, struggling mightily with the loss of your best four-legged friend. You’ve run off into the woods, thrown yourself under the spreading arms of an oak, and are crying your eyes out over the unfairness of death, and just when you were beginning to comprehend life, the universe, and everything. But, hey, feel the warmth of the sun on your head as it breaks through the branches? Isn’t that Ferris standing above you, her breath on your neck, telling you dogpathically, “Hey, let’s go have some fun!” You open those big, tear-stained eyes, looking up for . . . what? Ah, yes, the sweet memory of Ferris. And, as you know, with the turning of time, all things are memories. No, you can’t hold her physically now, whether you’re twelve or thirty-seven, but you can enfold her in your mind, and wait for the unclenching of your heart (which you said yourself will come). So, smile, young Wil Wheaton, for Ferris is at this very moment bounding . . . bounding . . . bounding . . .
You are absolutely not projecting. I can’t even take one dog for a walk without sending the other into a tizzy.
I’m so sorry. Despite what I thought was a soul deep love for my first pet when I was a child, every single time I’ve gone through this has been worse than the last. As I’ve gotten older the connection with my dogs just gets deeper and so does the pain, but everything that comes before it makes it worthwhile. Knowing the pain is coming I still can’t imagine living without a dog in my life. Just remember Riley isn’t just comforting you she’s seeking comfort from you as well. The two of you can help each other through it.
Oh, Wil, I’m so sorry for your loss. My dog passed many years ago, and I still haven’t sobbed like that since. I really understand, and wish you well.
We lost our Golden Eli a couple of months ago, and some days I still reach for his bowl at dinner time to feed him. Our other dog Toby looks a little lost every once in a while, but he was blessed with a short attention span and an obsession with tennis balls so he is easily distracted. As for the tears, they do come at unexpected times. My husband and I went to see Duran Duran in concert and the song ‘Ordinary World’ caused a small break down. Just know that it will get better.
–Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet, On Joy and Sorrow
Wil –
I read your post yesterday, and, apart from weeping for your loss, couldn’t find anything worthwhile to contribute. However, I happened by chance to catch the end of the inimitable Pam Ayres’ radio show today (http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00m6f4m Tippy Tappy Feet, about 23 mins in), and thought of you all, and sobbed and sobbed.
It should really be heard in Pam’s own particular performance, but as it’s on the BBC’s iPlayer, which I know can be a pain, I’ve transcribed the relevant bit below (sorry, it’s a bit long, and the random punctuation is mostly mine).
“Tippy Tappy Feet – Pam Ayres
The days are slowly passing, since I found her still and prone.
Since I took her to the surgery, and came back on my own.
Now, as my key turns in the lock, the sounds I miss the most of all, are the tippy tappy toenails as they -skidded- down the hall.
Oh there was something in her welcome, there was something in her style – in the jingle of her collar, and *ecstatic* doggy smile.
The tail that wagged so furious, the eyes that shone so bright.
It’s the silence, oh it’s the silence, it is blacker than the night.
And if I’d had a rotten day, if I was tired and spent, if I had found indifference in every place I went – always at my journey’s end, when I was flat and lonely, that little dog convinced me, I was *someones* one-and-only.
Her things are still around me, I have left them all alone. A little greasy collar, a yellow rubber bone. A hairy tartan blanket in her basket on the floor, from which she *sprang* to terrorise all knockers on the door.
How grievous is the emptiness on entering the hall.
How disproportionate, so great a loss, for one so small.
For the music it is missing, and my home is incomplete: the music of her tippy, tappy, doggy dancing feet.”
Much love to all on the loss of your friend.
Cry all you want, Wil – we had to put one of our cats, Pepper, down over 5 years ago, and I still miss her. I miss her sitting on my lap, purring so loudly and vigorously that we started calling her “Hemi”. I’m tearing up now just thinking about her.
But you’re right – it will get better. Just not right away and likely not for a while. That hole in your family will always be there, and while, down the road, you may get another pet, you will never be able to replace Ferris. Riley will eventually recover, too – don’t worry. Animals are far smarter about these things than we may realize.
man, that is the worst part about being a pet owner. I’ve been there a bunch of times myself. It’s always sad when other people go through it, because it makes you remember how tough it was for you too. As cheesy as it sounds, we understand, and we sympathize. And just like anything else, it’ll hurt less eventually. I’m sorry for your loss.
Last time it happened to me, I had a cat with a nasty form of cancer that we had to make the decision on. I cried for *days*. It’s been 3 years, and I still tear up sometimes when I think about him.
Although I don’t know you nor your sweet dog, I am grieving with you. My dogs are my companions, my children and a source of never-ending, unconditional love. You are all in my thoughts at this difficult time.
Oh Wil…
I was heading over here to congratulate you on your Leverage episode tonight and say how much I’m looking forward to it (Still am!) when I saw these posts about Ferris.
I’m so sorry for your family’s loss. She sounded like a wonderful girl. She was lucky to have been a part of your family, and you were all better for knowing her too.
You guys are in my thoughts.
Raeann
I am very sorry for your loss. When we lost our dog after 14.5 years of companionship, it took months before I didn’t choke up at the most bizarre things. I’m still tearing up writing this, 16 months later.
They leave an imprint on our soul. I comfort myself sometimes with a line from “Blade Runner:”
“The light that burns twice as bright burns for half as long – and you have burned so very, very brightly…”
They live their life so brightly. They really do.
I just wanted to say a couple more things, which I hope are supportive and not like a rant or anything.
“…though I’m aware that I may be projecting and anthropomorphizing, it sure does seem like she has sadness in her eyes.”
Actually, there’s tons of evidence that our animal ancestors are the source of our emotions, which let’s face it relate to some very primal bonding, and that human consciousness and self-awareness are very much afterthoughts.
So it’s not anthropomorphizing to imagine she’s missing her pack member and feeling emotions, without the benefit of the refinement (and therefore understanding) we have.
It’s more the case that you and all of us with emotions are (can’t think of the word for inverse of anthropomorphizing?!) when we feel primal emotions like grief – bleuch, clumsy sentence, but hope it translates…
A lot of people have commented how our companion animals are family members and other people don’t get it – let me tell you all, I have lost dogs, and four weeks ago today I lost my mum, suddenly, unexpectedly and way too young, and sure the grief’s different in quality, the moments of missing each and the memories are different, but it’s not the quantitive difference anyone who’s never loved an animal would expect, no way no how.
Cry all you need, I did for my dogs, and will continue to for my mum – love is love and doesn’t come with a meter to allocate it according to the loved one’s sentience or any other arbitrary measure.
Actually probably the only people we CAN feel unconditional raw love for are pets, kids, and parents – and NO-ONE would question someone being cut up losing the last two.
Fwiw, I’m dealing with my loss by watching shedloads of Trek, TNG & TOS, because I can’t bear the news or anything where people are in realistic (‘scuse me) jeopardy, and I heartily endorse losing yourself in a safe and distracting way while the shock heals a little.
You’ve brought so much amicable pleasure to so many readers online, you did my weary soul the world of good during the elections last year, please know that there are so many of us out here in webby-land sending you love, and so many of us have every understanding of where you’re at, because we’ve been there too. You and your family are in our thoughts, look after yourself, and please don’t feel like there’s a time limit for grief.
I feel with you… this is an awful loss. Ferris has really grown on all of us because of your blog, and you’ve always written with such love for that poor doggie.
I’ve lost my pet budgie years ago – I’ve had him for 14 years, and he was my baby. It sounds almost silly, but he had an incredible personality, and sometimes I read my diary entry from that time and it still chokes me up. I still miss him.
May the universe fill that hole with love and heal it with fond memories!:( I’m really sorry, and I hate to see you in pain. I hope your family is holding up ok.
Man. I’ve never had a dog, but I can imagine how this must hurt because pets do become such good friends and they become such a part of our lives.
sorry for your loss… =( I hope the days are sunny for you.
Shit. I’m so sorry for your loss, you guys. We lost our boxer Tice unexpectedly earlier this year and there are still moments that I get caught off guard with exactly that wave of grief you’ve described. But it gets better. Give Riley lots of hugs, and most importantly don’t be mad/disappointed at her for not being Ferris.