Golden Believer

The week after the loss of our beloved dog.

Inside the vet’s office, you gently rested that beautiful head with the big bump on top on my partner’s lap. Together, we sat and cried and hugged your ultra-soft fur and rubbed your recently shaved pink pot belly. You’re no longer sitting at my feet, or doing your strange yelp-bark combo, or tiptoeing across the garden border like a balance beam or looking ridiculous with a giant stuffed animal in your mouth.

It was over.

Minute by minute, hour by hour, I took a breath, then another. Breath by breath, the days started to pile up. Friends and loved ones texted and called and sent flowers. The clocks slowly began to tick again.

But the bowls, my God, the bowls. Those two shiny silver reminders that you’re gone.

Once the over is over, next comes the after.

Amidst the tears, the week trudged by. I mustered my resolve to run the errands I had been putting off. First, I circled back to the same Goodwill where I bought the red hoodie last Christmas that read “I don’t know Margo.” The attendant asked, “is that it?”

Yes, I said. “That’s it.” To myself I thought, with gratitude, “I did know Margo.”

Next, I stopped at Best Buy to purchase a Fitbit to help me start walking again. It reminded me of one of our last walks, when I led you across the street only to discover a dogless leash in my hands. I looked over, and you stood in the middle of the road, looking triumphant. You glanced at me, glanced at the house, and I swear you grinned when you seized the opportunity to rush on home.

You always knew what you wanted.

After Best Buy I found the courage to walk into PetSmart without you. The blow-up cone and the new collar were no longer needed, and I had to admit to the clerk that “my dog passed” when she asked me why I was returning them.

I walked out alone.

My next stop was the vacuum store and without realizing it, my route took me by the vet’s office that called yesterday to say your ashes were ready. I panicked. But the empty parking lot rescued me, and I took another breath.

The man at the vacuum store was friendly and kind. I’ve been noticing, really noticing, that everyday kindnesses have felt more like reminders that all the moments we had together are not gone, even in the after.

It turns out, I did know Margo. And Margo knew me.