this is love, for Fleet

from the journal on 11/23 and 11/24

I am so sad. I miss you. The way you would be at my feet right now, under the chair. Always by me. Chin resting on my feet. I miss the weight of it and your cold nose. 

“This is love” that is what will make me think of you… I would tell you this several times a day for no reason at all. I liked to talk to you like you could understand me. I always liked to tell you what love was because you seemed insecure in a way, and I related because I was also (still am) insecure. When we first got you, you seemed scared and worried. I like to think that we taught you what love was. The more you learned love, the more we saw you change. Ali said that this transformation is a gift. Your trainer said that you were a “dog with low self-esteem” and “weren’t quite good enough for trials, but good enough for the farm”, but you were more than enough. You were perfect. You still are. I miss you. What is happening?

“This is love”, I would say when giving snuggles to you in the car and when your paw would tap my shoulder when driving. Then you’d jump up front and stare at me and I’d have to hold your paw so you didn’t shift the car into neutral, which you did a number of times. I’d get mad, but I’d still call you my “ride or die buddy”. 

I will always find it funny that the day we bought you a dog bed, you started sleeping with us. After that, it was always five creatures in a full-size bed in a tiny room. You would hog the bed and leave little room for us, but I loved reaching out to your furry face. I’d wake up with a cat on my head and chest and your paws on my face… I always loved our morning snuggle and would often start the day by thinking, “this is love.” 

We also watched many movies on the couch this way, five creatures to a single couch. I think some days you wanted to be like the cats, so you would just jump in our lap like the cat. I miss this. 

You were always in love with Pipa and eventually became “vet buddies” with Caesar, but your love for Frenzy was immediate. She would chase your tail and you didn’t mind.

We went on lots of adventures. To Iowa and Florida and NYC and the beach and the mountains. You even flew in planes as my ESA, which was true beyond belief. You loved hiking and finding the dirtiest water and stepping in it. I’m pretty sure that’s how you ended up with the nickname, “Frog”. And how you loved the snow and eating it - I’d always say, “it’s coz you’re from Canada!” then I’d say, “this is adventure and fun!” We even rode in kayaks together. You would follow me anywhere and I hated leaving you.

I’d say, “this is socializing!”, when introducing you to new dogs. I’ll never forget how you fell head over paws in love with Nicole’s dog, Minnie. She was acting like a cat on a hike and didn’t walk at all and we all took turns carrying her up a mountain, but you helped guide her and in the end we let you both off-leash to chase each other. It was so nice to see you become friends with other dogs. Do you remember when we took you to NYC and we ended up at that silly dog bar that was having an actual birthday party? Of course, we weren’t invited and despite all the crazy dog owners, no one offered you a treat even as you looked at the party from the outside. We made it up to you though and got our own treats. One time, when I went through a Dunkin Donuts drive through, the guy saw you and asked if you wanted a “puppa-cino”. I said, “sure” and you were so happy to have that little cup of cream. When we went to Iowa, Dandeena also bought you ice cream and that became one of your favorite treats.

I’d say, “this is friendship” when introducing you to our friends. It took a few times (and you may have shown your teeth to both Julian and Rob), but in the end you eventually learned to love our friend group and our visits to NYC. You even snuggled up to Hayden and Margot in the car, like you did to Amanda and James on the way to Maine.

Our first days working together were amazing. It was like you really were my co-pilot, guiding the flock and watching. I would be amazed at how you would be sitting somewhere, your little ears peeking out of the grass as I’d move the fence, cursing to myself whenever I would trip or find a tick or get scratched by thorns, and you’d patiently wait and just when I was on my last strand or piece of fence the sheep would be walking up. It was as if you knew when they should be ready. This happened so many times. We really were a team. Where are you now my co-pilot and where do I go without you?

You would always know when I was getting ready in the morning. No matter how hard I tried to be quiet, you would hear me getting dressed and know when it was time to go. I can still hear your little collar and paw prints on the floor rushing over to make sure I didn’t leave you behind.

You were the best, unexpected thing that happened to me in something that was sometimes sort-of-a-mess-of-a-thing. So much has happened since moving upstate. In many ways it’s been the hardest time of my life, but it’s also been the best. It’s interesting how both of these are so tightly woven. 

My heart is aching so much. I don’t know what to do with my grief. Much like I didn’t plan on having you in my life, I didn’t expect to lose you so suddenly. I still can’t wrap my head around what happened. 

It seemed that you were fine two days ago, except you seemed a bit off, so we went to the vet and we thought it was your arthritis. I joked to you that we both had old bones. The next day, we went to the farm and you were slow getting to me, but you made it. I saw you watching from the far hills. I could always feel your eyes and I felt safe. There was something about that day though, it was like you were far away and I had a felt-sense of Caesar cat with you, like you were all watching me on the hill together and Vivi was grazing with the flock. It was fleeting and weird, but I didn’t think anything of it.

I know that no one can prepare you for loss. It’s impossible and tragic. The anniversary of my mother’s passing was on 11.11 and I didn’t have any energy to even think about it. I was in a deep flare and mostly delirious from pain, but you were with me. An anchor at my side. Snuggled up next to me through my fevers. My bones are still aching, like actually. Eyeball sockets are hard and soft. Everything is hard and soft.

I don’t know how to process this? I feel like all the joy has been ripped from me. I’m not angry or hard. I’m just lost and confused. 

You hated fireworks and loud sounds and would always come running to us for comfort. In the winter and spring, I liked walking up the hill for a bit of exercise and to watch the sunset. We would walk up together and you would run back and forth and always meet me. We’d get to the top and look out. You became my unexpected best friend and we would cheerlead each other. I wrote many songs for you. 

“His name is Fleet, Fleet, Fleet, he likes the street, street, street

He likes to walk around the town!

His name is Fleet, Fleet, Fleet, he likes the sheep, sheep, sheep

He likes to chase them all around!”

When we made our first Christmas video, you were so excited by the lights and the reindeer ears. You let me hold your paw to play the tambourine, ever-so-gingerly, while I sang and Caesar was all the while unhappy and Pipa let us have her play the piano. We had wine and laughed so much. When it was time to put things away, you genuinely looked sad, like “what, it’s over?” So I wrapped you in lights and said, don’t worry “this is love” and we sang more songs. 

There are so many memories, but I don’t even know where to start. I’m glad I take photos, small snippets caught in time. Do you remember the ridiculous sweater we bought you in NYC, it was a little too snug, but you were so cute! I hate that I can’t feel your furry face though or your cold nose. I remember coming back from Iowa this February after being gone for two weeks and you sat in my lap in the front seat, licking my face, even though it was cramped, “this is love”. 

My heart is broken. There has been so much loss this year, this lifetime. My own body is struggling. I don’t know how to hold this. We listened to a Tara Brach about the fires of loss while we snuggled on the floor together. We turned the room into a fort of sorts we all stayed together. We all laid around you and even both cats were curled up next to you. I imagined Caesar and Vivi, an awkward alpaca in the apartment too. We stayed this way for a long time, until it was time. We didn’t want you to suffer. 

My tears are a never ending fountain, but the well is dry. I have nothing, no words. I am broken. The talk talked about letting go and awareness itself. I am no stranger to death. The way it takes and the world stops, but it’s always spinning. As you were dying, we heard news about a new baby and a baby shower was taking place on Zoom. Things still needed to be coordinated for a class visit on mental health ~ oh the irony. I did find some respite in those plans ~ the ways we run away from the present, especially when it’s so painful. I also know that I am not alone in this pain, there is so much suffering right now. It is hard to know what to do.

Letting go, awareness itself, presence. Holding your face in my hands. Pain everywhere, phone calls, messages, distraction, presence.

I can’t do this. I don’t know how. I keep thinking of the Frank Kafka story about the doll and how “everything that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.”

I don't know how it is possible to hold so much loss. It is wrapped around me. I’m just so sad and lost. Maybe somehow, this grief, these tears, this time I spend thinking and reflecting is love in its purest form. 

This is love

This is love

This is love