It wasn’t really about the new
phone, or having to re-program my Bluetooth, or the lost photos from my Cloud,
although that last one was what made me collapse into tears. It was about the
fact that, exactly a week ago, I had held my sweet Rhody in my arms as she left
me. And that I had picked up her remains from the vet on Thursday. And that I
still hadn’t found the strength to vacuum the dog hair from the corners of the
bedroom. And that when the sunlight fell just right across the wood floor, I
saw the ghost of her pawprints because I couldn’t bring myself to mop, either.
When the AT&T guy came to my door to set up my service, he asked if I had a
dog. I hesitated, eyes glancing to Rhody’s collar, hanging on a hook by the
door where her leash used to hang. Then I realized he was talking about going
into my neighbor’s back yard. “It’s a duplex,” I explained. “The yard isn’t
mine. And yes, my neighbor has a German Shepherd.” He brightened at that and
told me he, too, had a German Shepherd, and so for a few minutes we talked
about the challenges of protective dogs. My veneer began to crack, ever so
slightly.
Later, when he was in the living
room, he asked if I had a hand vac or something for him to clean up the mess
he’d made, drilling a hole in the wall. I didn’t want to get the vacuum out and
told him I’d take care of it. “Oh no,” he joked. “My mom would hate it if she
knew I’d left my mess for you to clean up.” I smiled and told him he’d been
raised right and hauled the vacuum out of the closet. Stray dog hairs clung to
the plastic body, and when he turned it on, the unmistakable whiff of “dog”
entered the air. The crack grew a bit bigger. I went to the bathroom to get
some aspirin, and from behind the closed bedroom door where I’d contained the
cats, I heard a noise of distress. “Oh, you’re alright,” I automatically
called, forgetting that my dog wasn’t around to whine. “What?” asked the
technician and I realized my error. It was the neighbor’s dog, on the other
side of the wall. The crack widened and allowed a couple of tears to sneak
through, though I hastily wiped them before returning to the living room.
It was after the technician had left, and the coordinator had tried and failed to recover some photos I’d saved to another service’s Cloud, and I realized that my Bluetooth (upon which I heavily depended) wasn’t working, that the crack completely broke open and I lost myself in the emotions I’d been holding in. I stormed from room to room in my tiny house, ranting at AT&T for being there, yelling at Verizon for not being able to recover my lost phots, berating myself for not just leaving well enough alone, and then, finally, the truth came out: “I WANT MY DOG BACK, DAMMIT!!” And then, the tears were able to flow.
There’s a post I’ve come across several times, and it strikes me as particularly true right now: “I sat with my anger long enough, until she told me that her real name is grief”. Be gentle with those who are in its throes, especially if it’s your own self.
