Grief is what connects us

Yesterday I had a dog put to sleep. The emergency vet said he performs that very service five or six times a day: Inserts the contents of three syringes into the forepaw of a beloved pet.

When he said that, my heart broke for him. And for every pet owner on the planet. And for anyone who inflicts or experiences loss.

On the cold linoleum floor, wrapped in communal fleece blankets that would soon be washed clean of Ruby’s smell, I realized that grief is everywhere. And that saying goodbye to that dog—who somehow had become not only my trusty travel companion, but also my second child, fourth husband, and dearest confidant—connected me to everyone who has ever suffered a loss.

Of a pet. Of a loved one. Of a dream.

COVID taught us that though we may feel existentially alone—and we literally may be physically alone—we also are profoundly connected.

Because we’re human. And we grieve. And it’s our grief that binds.

So maybe we should just give in to that grief. And be grateful for it.

When I was twelve years old, I took my dog Cocoa for a walk to the schoolyard. Though she was a whippet-greyhound mix, she wasn’t nearly fast enough to skirt a speeding red Camaro. Thinking the dog would live, I sent the murderer home.

There were no cell phones then, but somehow police knew to come and take the dog away. I think I trudged home alone with an empty collar. But I could remember wrong.

Given that formative trauma, it’s amazing I’ve found it in my heart to love other dogs.

So, what I’d like to say is that losing Ruby isn’t my private grief. It connects me to anyone who has ever experienced loss. And anyone who ever will.

Nobody gets out of this life alive. So, why not acknowledge that in advance?

Rescue a mutt although they’re unpredictable and wild. Or spend big bucks on another Chocolate Lab, knowing that inbreeding may bring heritable disease.

Maybe even buy another scooter, knowing you could be hit again. And the hitter could run.

But whatever we do. Let’s not give up on love.