A Love That Never Needed Words
I hang on the edge of the line, feet frozen in my kitchen, eyes slanted into nothingness.
“He’s gone.” My mom breaks character, her steady voice shattering on the other end.
And so I shatter too, sinking to the floor, mourning my childhood dog from one thousand miles away.
On FaceTime I watch helplessly as my three brothers huddle around our favorite Golden Retriever, Leo, where he lay sprawled and peaceful on the folded back seats of my mom’s car.
Leo. I had begged my family to get on board with that name. I was 16 and deep in my Leonardo di Caprio phase, but had convinced everyone, especially my dad, we were naming him after Leo Messi. Eventually it didn’t matter who he was named after at all - he just was a Leo. I learned in later years the name has Greek origins meaning “lion” or “lion-hearted.” From then on, I always thought he resembled a little lion, with his golden mane-like fur and the distinctive curve of his nose.
That sweet nose. Those unforgettable eyes that could melt a person. The pointed bone at the crown of his head that we’d stroke, joking he looked like a little shark. I mentally run my hands through his coat and imagine kissing his face and holding the warmth of his body to mine.
I have known human loss quite intimately. I’ve known grief that pulls you to the floor, clasps its hands around your throat, and makes you wonder how you’ll carry on. I am no stranger to losing a piece of your life.
But this feels different.
Here in this parking lot, in this car, on a perfectly normal sunny afternoon, my world cracks in half again, in the palm of my hand. I am watching my Aching unfold not through my own eyes, but through static audio, a poor internet connection, a fucking LCD screen.
I don’t know why or how, but something primal erupts from somewhere deep inside me. I say goodbye, I’ll call again later. I hang up. It’s too much.
I scream. I thrash inside my head. I wonder why I never get to say goodbyes.
Catharsis comes and I embrace it like a waterfall, inserting myself into the pittie pile with our dogs Cosmo and Emma, holding them tighter than maybe I ever have before. They lick my tears, and I let them indulge, trying to understand how you process loss like this - loss of a love that never needed words. A love so simple, pure, unconditional. A relationship that never needed explanations, never had nuances, never faltered, and was just always there.
I think every dog in their own way is a therapy dog for their family. But there’s a special awe I hold for the ones who have this role thrust upon them. I watched Leo experience his own grief and become the anchor of comfort for our family. After my dad passed away, he grew highly alert, especially protective of my mom, and perhaps even more physically affectionate than he already was. Inside of our infinite, gaping, hole, he cuddled with us and gave our lives a breath of purpose when it was impossible to see. In a way I can only identify now, in retrospect, he was our little hero.
He made us laugh so much too, a softening remedy on the harder days. Leo was notorious for covertly stealing food off the counters, even when placed where we thought was for sure unreachable. We even came home once to him standing matter-of-factly on our dining room table. He had an untamed obsession with cheese and sat (rather impatiently) at our feet during every meal, whining until we eventually gave in. (I admit, I may be the culprit for this). He was so needy, we would joke, although it was always endearing, when he’d relentlessly paw any person sitting in our living room until they pet him with undivided attention.
Like a strong and steady stream, Leo’s best quality was his mere presence. We’d bring him along on our annual summer family vacations to the Wisconsin north woods, where he’d chase the ducks, swim in the lake, and even kayak with us. Our naps were his naps too, our beds his bed, where he’d sprawl out diagonally and nuzzle near us like a human. He was a true companion.
The light from my living room window shifts and brightens. The painful realization occurs to me, that our family is one less member again. That my dad has been gone long enough for Leo to reach old age. That this grief on top of grief is still just love on top of love with no place to go. I try to peel apart the layers but they stubbornly weld back together in my head, like an inseparable mix of mysterious metals. I now understand why I become a fountain of emotion when one of the screws falls loose. I am accumulating grief, it seems, with every life milestone, everything compounding upon itself.
They say there’s a rainbow bridge on the other side of this life, where we’ll all reunite with our pets. I like to imagine that moment, in an ethereal meadow of sorts, where he’s running to me like he did as a puppy: full speed, uninhibited, free of pain. I imagine him looking more regal than he ever has before, a little lion at the gates of Heaven, and then we’ll cross over together.
