This week I lost my 14 year old pup, Barley. A lot happens in 14 years. Kids grow up. Marriages fail. Jobs change. Brilliant people are elected president. Idiots are elected president. Moves are made. Global pandemics happen. People are born. And grieve. And die.

Six homes, five dog beds, four intense transitions, three states. And through it all, there was this sweet, cheerful, always up for a good time dog, Barley. He really “took one for the team” more times than I can count. In my untethered seasons, he was an anchor. His needs were few: food, a walk, sniffing in the back yard, a sock, some tug-o-war, treats. He was such a good buddy..

When we got Barley, as a first generation golden doodle before they became kinda a big deal, people would say: “That’s so great! They don’t shed! And they have the sweetness of a golden and the intelligence of a poodle!” My response? “Well, the jury’s still out about the intelligence factor.” I used to say he was “part muppet/part sheep”. He weathered so many storms with me. He truly accompanied me every day through the hardest years of my life. I took him for granted far too much.

Dogs are not human; and I doubt they are “God spelled backward”; but I can see why people think so. He loved me no matter what I did. He was always THRILLED to see me, even when I just wanted quiet and no demands. He was patient when I was not. He amused me by choosing arugula over spinach as a snack. (But really, who doesn’t like arugula better?) When he ran off leash after a squirrel, his tail whizzed around like a helicopter; his legs flailing off kilter muppet-like. When he treed said squirrel, he would look over his shoulder at me with a “see what I did, mom?” look on his face. He loved people: dogs, not so much so. I quit going to dog parks because he made me run around too much in order for HIM to get exercise. He would much rather evade the dogs and wander around getting pets from the people. What a shmoozer!

One evening while I lived in Louisville, KY, we were sitting on the porch of our tiny shot gun house. A couple with a very large dog walked by; the kind who might have a name like “Butch” or “Gary” or maybe “Leviathon”.

I should explain that the front of the house had a cute little picket fence that lined the front of the property and continued about 8 feet up both sides. But a chunk of the side property was open to both neighbors.

Normally he would run up to the gate and bark like he was possessed, scaring those who were walking by while I said reassuringly, “ah – don’t worry – all bark” while hollering at him to come back and to quit being a jerk. But that day, he had something under his dander, and he took off like a shot toward that enormous dog. Through the neighbor’s yard, tail whirling, he flew out onto the sidewalk, barking up a storm. Then, he saw what he was up against. He took one up close look at that dog at least twice his size – and whizzed right past both dog and walkers onto the neighbor’s yard on the other side, and planted himself back on the front porch with me. He had essentially run a circle around the nonplussed behemoth and come back to sit by my side as if to say, “phew – that was a close one!”. What a ridiculous muppet of a dog. He so made me laugh.

While I worked in hospice, people in acute grief often ask, “how long will this last?” Grief can be so overwhelming and completely consuming. Every bit our of bodies, spirits, and minds is filtered through the murky fog of disrupted sadness and anxiety. We are in a cloud, confused and fuzzy and doubting we will ever feel normal again. I wish I could say that we would be normal again, but I knew, from the research in the field, that there is no “returning to normal.” Yes, a new normal would emerge, but the waves of grief would continue; eventually softening around the edges. They would be less frequent, and we would discover a new rhythm to life and living. So to the question, “how long will it last?”, the answer is “as long as the love.”

On this nearly one week mark of losing my dear family member, I am sad and I am grateful. That we get to live and love is, as my atheist beloved dear one says, “nothing short of miraculous”. So, oh miraculous life, thank you for all that is. Thank you for loving and grieving. It is worth it.