Last Monday at noon I went to my first yoga class in several years. For whatever reason my yoga practice vaporized from my agenda when I had my second kid. It went from daily to nada. I’ve missed it and blabbed about missing it but didn’t do anything about it.
And then Alice died. I haven’t hiked or ran since. Well, I did once and felt like an anvil sat on my heart the entire time, pushing buckets of tears out of my body. I was not ready to be up in these hills without her.
One late night last week I got out of bed to look up yoga schedules in Missoula. I found a class time that worked for me and promised myself I’d go. And then I saw the teacher’s name. Marina. She’s my old teacher. In fact, the last time I went to this particular studio I was eight months pregnant with a breech Margot. Marina helped me through giant-bellied handstands and headstands until my bug swam herself 180. Marina!
People say dogs don’t live long enough. This statement is true in human brains. For dogs, I think they feel just right. Because they always do feel just right. Always.
Alice dies on Thursday night, November 20. It is a shock. We just – two days ago – ruled out the kidney failure diagnosis we had mourned. We have a new vet we love. We release ourselves into an ocean of relief and optimism.
She falls over in the living room. She recovers. My kids think she slipped on their paper snowflake scraps. A short while later, her back legs stop functioning. I am on and off the phone with vets, neighbors, my husband. She wants to drink endless water, she wants to lay in the snow. She is scared. She looks into me for answers. All I have is love.
The day before – the day of the glorious blood and urine work news – we ran together. She gained four pounds back in two weeks. Moments before the episode I took a picture of my new boots to send to a friend. She pushed her wet nose into my hand. I called her into the kitchen for a treat and she bounced into me to be sure I remembered.
Four bucks stand 15 feet away, staring at us. One is impossibly noble. I see his breath in the cold air. Alice lays in the snow and can’t get up.
Fuck. Is this happening?
I carry her back into the house. I feel calm and alert. My kids are playful and hungry. I manage it all and notice that I feel emotionless. Alice vomits everything she ate that day, undigested. I clean it up with a dust pan. I make dinner.
Andy walks in and says hey, girlie like he always does. Every day for 11 years. She softens. She wags her tail.
We have a few normal hours with her. We wonder if she ate something weird. We sit with her and it feels like it always does. There is a shift. It is subtle, calm, peaceful even. We feel it. We know. She leans into me and closes her eyes.
As she is dying in my arms in our bedroom, she tells me a few things.
Feel it.
Love what you love.
Trust.
Be devoted.
Give in.
My husband looks old when he wraps the brown fleece blanket around her body. I remember his smooth face. I remember 16 years old. I remember not a thought beyond that moment of our first kiss.
We hold her. Her breath changes. We FEEL her life leave. It is so visceral I may even see her life leave.
I remember roaring when in labor. It shocked me. Not because I am a quiet person but because I had no control over the noise bellowing from my guts. This is the same. I howl. I gag.
When I arrive to the yoga studio Marina lies flat on her back on a mat in the middle of the floor. She slowly rolls toward the entry and giggles. She tells me I look tall. We hug.
She asks for updates about my body that might help her during practice. I tell her about my knee injury last winter. I tell her I am really sad. I say I might burst into tears during practice. She says, well we all might do that dear.
It’s a hatha class but I expect options for movement and intensity. I think I want intense, that I will elect for the “if you want to take it one step further” options. We sit and breathe for many minutes. We lay down. Marina reminds us that the earth is entirely responsible for supporting our bodies and we can give in to it. With those words I feel a fracture into my sadness. I try to grab it. I can’t. We stretch our toes. I stretch through spiteful cobwebs in down dog. I feel my shallow, arthritic breath. I try to push it down into my belly. I remember that satisfying, oxygenating, alive feeling. I want it.
I can’t wait for the sun to rise. It rises. We tell the kids in our bed, when they join us as they do every morning. Margot arrives first.
Where is she? Margot asks.
On her bed right here, we say.
Can I go to her? Will you come with me?
Yes.
She is cautious. She places a flat palm on her body and feels the coolness, the bones.
Can I listen to her heart? she asks.
You can, I say. But it isn’t beating anymore.
Does her brain still work?
No. All her organs have stopped working.
Will she remember us?
Oh baby. Yes I believe so.
Ruby wakes. We are all crowded under the down and wool. Andy tells Ruby.
Where is she? Ruby asks.
On her bed right here, we say.
Can I go to her? Will you come with me?
Yes.
Ruby rolls into her. She stares into her open eyes. She lays on top of her and says what feels different, what feels the same. I am astonished at her inhibition.
She hugs her. She pushes her fur back and forth. She peeks under the blankets. She cries.
The morning is gray. It is the day before Ruby’s birthday party.
Margot asks where Alice is now. Can she feel? Does she know us?
We talk about spirit. We look at her body together and notice her spirit isn’t there. I wish for a tidy answer about god or heaven but I don’t have one. I ask what they think.
Margot says I am pretty sure I get it. It looks like she’s somewhere else. It feels like she isn’t loving us right now even though she is right here. But, like, she’s not really right here. She’s out there.
Andy calls me outside to choose a place. He uses a jackhammer to break the first foot of frozen earth. The sound pierces the silence in our home. Then he digs. We stay inside. Soon he is shoulder deep in earth, in a t shirt. His breath, tears remind me of the bucks in the field the night before, of Alice in our room, of funerals and birthday parties.
The kids write words, draw pictures, gather things for our ceremony. They seem so content and I feel like enforcing how sad it is. I feel like telling them to stop laughing. I don’t. I appreciate how nothing is off limits to them. Nothing is inappropriate.
We wrap her in a white piece of fabric. My husband carries her from our bedroom to her grave. She looks small.
We cut rope and tie it around her body so we can lower her the six feet. The kids weep. Margot climbs the garden fence in protest. Ruby sits on the frozen mud. Andy and I stand opposite each other, across from the cold hole, our eyes heavy and swollen.
It is messy and the air is so saturated with every bit of our selves – physical and spiritual – that I feel like we could manifest our own storm.
We lower her onto a bed of pine boughs. We place our objects in with her, each dropped a few seconds after the last item. It seems foggy but it isn’t. It seems warm but it isn’t.
Margot wrote a letter that reads My dog died and we don’t know why. I love her. Ruby brought the magnet from her chore chart, the one that means she gave Alice snuggles. She holds that magnet until the end. I didn’t know she had grabbed it. She throws it up in the air like confetti and sobs I love you Alice.
The kids also add her favorite peanut butter treats, her collar. I read a letter I wrote. I toss in my running shoes. We couldn’t find her leash and Andy rightly points out how appropriate that is. We could never find her leash. He curls toward the grave and drops a bunch of dried lavender. Three earth worms emerge from the walls of the grave and fall in.
He asks to bury her by himself. Margot cries and grabs at my pants. Ruby panics, tells us she doesn’t want to leave Alice outside all alone because she never did like being all alone. I sit on the snow with my daughters and we settle into it. Ruby’s wet face pushes into my sternum. She says At least Alice has the wormies with her now.
Margot runs upstairs and into the house. I follow and find her on Alice’s bed. She rolls dog hair between her fingers and moves it around on her leggings. Ruby joins her. Together they sit there for hours.
At the end of yoga, we do this slow series of rolling across a pillow on the floor, first lengthening our side, our back, our other side. It sounds easy and relaxing, like a cooked buttery noodle draped over a fork. Marina asks us to take our time, to move when it feels good. I start on my right side. I am awkward and sticky. Al dente. My breath weak.
I wiggle and adjust. I breathe. I roll. I curl my spine up and then down. I broaden my shoulders. I breathe. I breathe a little deeper. I stiffen and squirm. I wish I was open and willing. I fill hollow, painful places with breath. I grow. I try.
Ruby turns five. She asks for her cake to look like Alice. Margot gets up early, gets dressed in her snow gear and goes outside. Later, I find her footprints lead to Alice’s grave. And there is a snow angel on top.
Feel it.
Love what you love.
Trust.
Be devoted.
Give in.
74 Comments
Well, that was the saddest thing I think I’ve ever read. I think Andy was right, it’s good to put it out there, for you. Alice will always be running with you, out there, when you are ready to join her. She is patiently waiting. Feel it.
I felt it. I loved it. Great writing, Nici. Thanks for sharing the hard parts of your life here, too. I’m writing Alice’s advice in my journal and putting it above my desk today, as well.
Feel it.
Love what you love.
Trust.
Be devoted.
Give in.
Words to live by. xoxo
Sitting here reading and sobbing. I am so sorry to hear of Alice’s passing. I have seen Alice here, on your blog, for many years. I will miss her, too. She was the best. The very best. She was the Queen of your couch and your hearts. Hugs and love being sent your way. May you find comfort in the arms of each other and in the huge community that loves you.
I do find comfort in this community. Thank you for the love. I have been surprised by how much your words and support have lifted me up when I’ve been down and I’ve had some really down days. I appreciate each and every one of YOU. Thank you.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more emotionally connected to anything I’ve read. I mean, I’m just sobbing. Thanks so much for moving me this moment. I’m glad you shared.
tears are streaming down my face. what a poignant ode to alice, your shared love, your family’s grief journey. i am astonished by the palpable love that seeps out of each sentence. thank you for sharing, nici. xo
I am a writer who doesn’t write, and not a dog lover but this has inspired me like nothing else.
Keep going.
I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard over a life I didn’t know. What a beautiful tribute, to Alice and to allowing yourself to feel. Thank you for sharing that, and thank you for being open…to yourself and to all of us.
I’ve never cried so hard for a blog: for you, for Andy, Margo, Ruby, for Alice, for trail runs with wagging tails, for gravesite snow angels, for 6-feet under and two feet on top. Her spirit is out there. And now her body is part of the earth that is entirely responsible for supporting our bodies.
Thank you for sharing so deeply, so sorrowfully and vulnerablly.
Oh Molly that is lovely – that her body is part of what is now entirely responsible for supporting our bodies. There is so much beauty in pain and loss. It’s like the same thing. Beauty belongs to anything real.
Thank you so much for sharing. As I sat at my desk with tears streaming down my face you brought back memories of Patsy and Penny, my two dogs growing up. This was such a beautiful tribute. The love of dogs cannot be matched, and I think of how blessed your girls were to have such an amazing member in their family. And thank you for the reminder to hug my dog a little closer when I get to see her tonight. Many hugs and happy holidays.
I was on this same journey with my Dasher in June. I cry for you all, and I cried, again for Dasher. Your words were a beautiful tribute to your love for your sweet Alice. And a new day begins.
Pretty sure this is the most I have ever cried over a single piece of writing. Beautiful. Thank you for sharing as always. This, in the context of having just yesterday adopted our first dog in 3 years.
Hi.
I passed this on to so many of my family members, i cried so many crocodile tears over this, but I remember doing the same for Osa. If you’ve loved one dog, you’ve loved many dogs. H
Nici this is a triumph. I don’t know how to respond because I don’t want to break the silence that follows this piece- the perfection. The writing is beautiful, breathless. I love how you changed tones. The ceremony over the grave feels raw and cold and necessary. The waxing and waning of the girls’ emotions. The jackhammer- that says it all. Brutal and necessary.
Oh Nici, I NEVER cry when reading things. I’m just not nice that way. But I cried over this one. I think about those words from Barbra Kingsolver’s novel The Poisonwood Bible: the most we can ask for is that the oldest dies first- that children get to bury their parents and not the other way around. But with dogs, it’s the opposite. And that sucks. Louie CK does a really good bit, it’s funny but it’s not, about the inevitability of our beloved dogs dying, and why do we bring them home as babies when we know that’s going to happen?
I don’t know but I do know. Hometeam’s been a real brat since I brought her to Vermont. She barks all the time and snarls at the other dogs, she is glued to my side. If I go to the bathroom she follows me. She tracks me with her eyes. She’s my sidekick, my shadow. You lost a family member, you lost your running buddy, you lost your shadow. It’s going to hurt and I wish I could make it better for you!!
It will get better though, because that time was invented to make these things hurt less.
I love you!
lina
Wow, beautiful tribute.
I totally feel all of this after losing Ben, our first dog, in July.
I had to carry him outside to go potty for the last time. We knew the time was coming, but it came so quickly and he looked at me with his beautiful, brown, i’ve been a grumpy old man my entire life eyes and told me that he did not want me to have to carry him outside again.
Their lives are short, but they live with us forever.
I found this book for my kids written by one of my favorite local author/illustrators…you might like it…
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-heaven-of-animals-nancy-tillman/1117827748?cm_mmc=google+product+search-_-q000000633-_-9780312553692pla-_-book_under5-_-q000000633-_-9780312553692&ean=9780312553692&isbn=9780312553692&kpid=9780312553692&r=1
Hugs from one dog lover to another.
We’d just lost our oldest dog to illness/old age (13 yrs) this summer and were devastated; then, our 2nd dog (his almost 6 yr old cousin) died very quickly from a ruptured tumor on his spleen just 22 days later at a much younger age. While we still had our 2 1/2 girl with us, we all miss the boys terribly. Your words here quickly had me crying — remembering them, and aching for you and your family. Thank you for sharing with us. (We’ve added a baby boy boxer to our family in October and he’s taken another piece of our hearts. )
Oh babe, I’m so so sorry. (again) I really don’t know what else to say.
I’ve cried with you tonight.
With big armfuls of hugs and love,
Angie
oh Alice. I love that, that she is now part of the earth that supports us. Supports you and your loving family. I love how you let the girls feel their way through it. I love how you try so hard when you’re down. You take responsibility for your body and your emotions, it’s brave. It’s healthy. In a way we have all lost Alice a little bit. She burst through your words or sat at the bottom of the post and wapped her tail on the floor. She was everywhere. Thank you. And thanks, Alice!
Beautifully, beautifully written. Thank you for sharing your heart and soul with us, Nici.
I’m so sorry. This was just beautiful, heart-wrenchingly sad and beautiful.
Thank you for sharing this piece. It is honestly one of the best things I’ve ever read. Ruby tossing the chore magnet….perfect and poignant and child-like-faith-like and every emotion. Then the snow angel. Omg. A beautiful tribute to your Alice. I am going to read this again now.
Nici. Your words, such raw grief, still. Life is so brutal, and it seems harder as we grow older to deal with it. But your honesty and your heart and your openess to share is beautiful, and like many here I have shed tears as I have read this post. I know Nigella’s days with us are not long – and I know I will be so sad, because like you and Andy, she is the first “child” Rob and I had together. Dogs have a wisdom we will never have, and I just hope some of it rubs off on us as they graciously share our lives, as they let us become their pack. Xxx
Oh, how I felt this. In fact, I went into the ugly cry. We lost our 18 1/2 year old cat a year ago. I find myself still expecting to see her in certain parts of our house, certain parts of the day. My first instinct was to shield our then 6 year old daughter from the pain, but thankfully my husband knew better. That she needed to experience this. To understand loss, to understand my immense sadness (she was my cat before we got married) and to experience grief in her own way, in her own time. I’m glad you allowed your girls to do the same. The loss is great and the hurt is real, but you can all work through it together. Hugs, much love and healing to you and your family.
Gorgeous storytelling of your sweet girl Alice and the stories woven around her time in your lives as she came and left. It broke me for a very long time when I had to say goodbye to my 14 year old Rottweiler, Daisy, in 2012. The day before the vet came to do it at our home (on the front porch where she happily sat guard for so many years as I worked in the yard), I took her out for a full day of fun – well, the fun she could handle at her state of being – out to the island nearby and a full breakfast of bacon and eggs (not that she could digest it, but I think she thought I’d gone bonkers, she was so thrilled to get to eat people food). I spread her ashes along our favorite beach, from the path to it down to the water she and I would splash around in. This fall my husband and I rescued a bullmastiff, Ruby, who seems to have Daisy’s eyes and piggish appetite…I have called her Daisy more times than I can count but I’m glad to have her and glad I took the time to grieve and process over the death of my best friend and by far my longest relationship. Big hugs to you and the family during this chapter’s end and new chapter’s beginning with Alice keeping an eye on you from a distance. Boy, what a lucky girl she was 🙂
I think this the most beautiful heart breaking thing you have ever written. im crying and sending you and your family love. xxxx
This was amazing to read. Your journey with Alice was amazing. Keep breathing, keep being present. Sending strength and peace out into the universe for you and your family.
I have never left a comment before at any blog, but I have let to you know that I am very touched by your post and that far away from you somewhere in Germany a woman cries into her soon to be 21-year old cat’s fur about your loss. Alice was so so loved and she will always be right there in your hearts.
Such a beautiful, moving tribute to Alice.. I’m glad you decided to share it x
This breaks me up. I have never loved a pet like this, never. But I have loved people and I have loved you and your fam and we all want answers. We all want freedom. We all want Marina to say to us, “We all might, dear.” Because it’s true. We might and we will but we won’t be alone when we do.
Thank you for sharing these beautiful words. It feels like a privilege to read them, and to shed tears with you, and to know that none of us are ever really alone in our grief when we have the courage to share it. She was so obviously loved. What a gift, even in her final lessons. Holding space for you.
I am so glad you wrote this Burb…your words make me feel peaceful about the loss of sweet Alice.
I love you!
I have been reading your blog for years now. I love your little family and I love the way you write. I am sitting here at my kitchen table, crying very hard at the beautiful words you just wrote about Alice. She was lucky to have you in her life. You were lucky to have her in your life. It’s so hard losing a pet and your tribute to her was perfect.
Thank you!
I cried through this entire blog, I was taken back to my childhood when my dog passed away, I was broken, she was my companion, protector, entertainer… I could go on.
My heart breaks for you family and for your sweet girls, I know they get it, and that Alice will always hold a special place in all your hearts. Nothing like the love of a dog.
My dog taught me trust and encouraged me how to feel it. The lesson learned from Alice will never be forgotten. When you get back to those mountains you will feel her, sense her in your spirit.
This is truly one of the most touching, beautiful, naked blogs you have ever written. I have followed your blog for a few years now. Your ability to capture the spirit of your experience gives voice to our collective experiences in the wider community. You have a wonderful gift and I’m very thankful that you share it with us.
i just pretty much sobbed. this is so fucking beautiful.
i only wanted to let you know i was here, and this is… I don’t have the right words to even leave a comment to do this post justice. love to you and your family. i’m at your feet, just at your feet.
Read this through a halo of tears.
It’s just so fucking hard to lose our pups.
Big old extra squeezy hugs and cold puppy nose boops from Jada and me.
Oh Nici… this is so beautiful and visceral and true. Seriously one of the most moving pieces I’ve read in a long time. So so sorry for your family’s pain… losing a family member is a hard lesson as a kid… Margot’s snow angel brought me to tears. Our old man Dewey dog is 14 and is refusing food & drink the past 24 hours… heading to the vet this morning. It’s never easy, but the love these furry beasts bring to our lives is such a gift.
Big hugs,
xo
Kate
Oh, Nici. Sending you all hugs and love and wishes for moments where you feel Alice among you. xoxo
As I’m reading this, my Kitty, 3 years old and the first animal who’s ever been truly *mine,* jumps into my lap to cuddle. I might be snuggling her a little tighter today after reading your beautiful tribute to Alice. Virtual hugs from a girl in Ohio and her little cat.
Thank you for sharing with us. We feel your pain with you, wishing we could take some away for you. The loss is tremendous, there’s no way around it. I’m thankful you were surrounded by your family who loved Alice with you and was there to mourn with you.
Simply beautiful.
Your writing is an incredible gift. This beautifully raw piece hit me hard; it gripped me tight and closed my throat and made it hard to breathe. The way you weave together your grief with that of your husband and your children… I feel it. It makes me weep for you, for me, for all of us who have loved and lost. I am so sorry for your broken hearts and so happy for the years of joy Alice brought.
Oh, Nici, how I wept reading this piece. How painful and raw it felt, and yet how grateful I was for the reminder that grief finds us often unexpectedly where we are, but never leaves us where it found us. Thank you for sharing this and sweet Alice with all of us.
This was achingly beautiful. Thank you for the rawness and the real-ness.
I too have tears streaming down my face. Your words were beautifully written…..
I’m going outside to hug my dog Jack now.
x
I managed to keep it together all the way to the girls in Alice’s bed. I’m definitely giving my dog a few extra squeezes tonight.
This was beautiful, spare, painful, raw and so truthful. The tears streaming down my face as I read it made it hard to see the words. Thank you for sharing such a brutal moment with all of us. Those of us who love our animals as family, even those who haven’t experienced it, can emphasize with your loss. So glad to have known Alice through your writing and much love to you and your family.
The feels. So many, so intense. Alice has returned to the stars, as we all must in time. My heart breaks for you.
Beautifully written. Thank you for sharing.
This post is the most beautiful tribute you could have given to Alice. As painful as it sounds for Margot and Ruby to have experienced this, Alice’s death has probably given them the kind of wisdom that other kids (and adults) would take years to acquire.
Amazing. Just amazing.
Margot’s snow angel is still giving me chills.
Oh Dear Nici, Andy, Margot and Ruby, I’m so sad for your loss. Dear Ms Alice was an amazing member of the family and will always be part of each of you!
My love to all of you!
Aunt Penne
[…] – Dig This Chick […]
Thank you for sharing Alice with us. Thank you to Alice! My love and big hugs to you, Andy, Margot, and Ruby. xo
This is beautiful — the love, loss, family and joy for the journey you weave in your life and the way your heart and words tell your story. Yoga helps me put it all in perspective as well. Namaste to you and your family and to the spirit of Alice. XO
One of the most beautiful pieces on grief I’ve ever read. Wow. I’m crying with all of your readers. Thank you for sharing your heartbreak. Praying for peace and comfort!
I had to stop three times to succumb to those body heaving sobs, the ones that choke and sputter from deep within. The ones you don’t realize had been there, maybe since four years ago, or maybe since the holiday card with the chocolate lab on the cover I was given last week.
Nici, I have no words. I am simply blown away by your voice, your storytelling. This is profound and beautiful. It is raw and cathartic and pure, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing Alice with us. Thinking of you, Andy, Margot, and Ruby, your sweet Alice, and little Mabel. Happy holidays.
I feel everything you wrote. I couldn’t have explained this experience better. Loosing a dog is rough. The worst. She is such a lucky dog to have ya’ll as her family. Thinking of your family this holiday season and congrats on the new puppy! Alice would be happy.
Goodness, so many tears. What a sad but profoundly beautiful post. Thinking of you all.
So sorry for your loss. The loss of a pet — a family member — is so so hard. We said goodbye to my dear Belle three years ago. I held her in my arms and let her go. It was the saddest and most beautiful thing I’ve ever done. We have not gotten a new dog yet. Just yesterday, my husband and two sons gathered around the Christmas tree, I said: “The only thing that would make this moment more perfect would be a doggie.” Some day soon I believe I will be strong enough for a new family member. Some day soon it will be the right time for our family. Thank you for this post — it made me realize that some day is sooner than I think. I wrote about the loss of my dog; if you need to feel less alone in this: http://www.evelynalauer.com/reflection-putting-down-my-dog-spreading-her-ashes/
Nici, I usually read your blog posts over and over again, finding new things to enjoy each time. I mean it as a compliment when I say, this is one post I won’t be able to read again for a while. I lost my first baby girl, Queenie, an Aussie shepherd/blue heeler mix, on December 15, 2013. I could hear that fire wind of grief howling through your post again. I’m so glad I was there, holding and comforting her as she died. I feel that if I hadn’t been there, I’d always be wondering where she was. But I know. I didn’t leave her to death–she lives inside my heart, safe, happy and well.
Two weeks after we lost Queenie, we adopted Harriet, a little terrier mix who is quirky and silly and was very frightened of being in the shelter. She’s the polar opposite of Queenie, but we knew we could never replace our first baby and that wasn’t the goal. I learned from Queenie the blessing of having someone to love. It was icing on the cake that she loved me, too. I learned so much from Queenie, probably the most important thing being that the love is worth the pain. So much so, that we have Harriet now. Logic doesn’t enter into it. Why would we set ourselves up again for so much grief and pain? Grieving is necessary, and it must be given its time, it’s season. But if grief is all we foster, grief is all we have. Our pets who have passed on taught us to love so well that we can’t imagine not loving. Love is like breathing–we simply must. So we find new little ones to love. I have Harriet, and I am so very happy that you and your family now have Mabel! The blessings of this holiday season are too big to see the borders; we must move through them. Love to all of you, Susan
I read this many days before I could bring myself to comment on it’s beauty. We lost my mom and dad’s dog earlier this year and I know, I just ‘know’ our precious dog is probably next. She’s woven into the fabric of our lives.
I cried many, many tears over your writing because so much of it is how we’ve felt with the loss of Sparky. I said it before and I’ll say it again, but one you’ve loved a dog, you’ve loved most dogs. It’s al love and a loyalty that isn’t easily, or ever, forgotten.
H
It’s so true, our pets do leave us much too soon. The hardest day is the day we have to say goodbye. When that day comes, and it has come several times for me, I remind myself of all the good times we shared together. And believe it or not…remembering helps me grieve a little easier and cry a little softer. Goodbye sweet Alice….you were truly well-loved.
Pets are such an incredible comfort to us, a haven, a loving soul presence that reminds us to let our guards down. I just lost a dear pet a few weeks ago – my cat of 12 years. Her sister cat wanders the house looking for her now. My 3 year old golden – snuggled next to us in bed now – I remind her now she can never leave me. But I know she will someday. Pets are here with us for such a short time – to help us remember to cherish the here & now. Sending you the biggest hug although I don’t know you! And so silly, but I’ve been hesitant to go to yoga class bc I know the tears will flow. But that is okay! Thanks for the reminder. We’re all in this together.
R. I. P. Alice. My sympathies and prayers to you and your family. I don’t even know you and I bawled thru the whole story. She will always be watching over all of you.
I feel like this deserves a moment of silence. But just wanted to send a big virtual hug. Much love to you all.
Beautifully and eloquently written. I got lost in your story, felt like I was reading a novel for a moment. I paused and remembered that this is someone’s life. A powerful summation of what your family has been through. Thank you for sharing it. I will think of your sweet Alice and what she meant to you.
Dammit… It took me 3 different times to read this all the way through. So dang sad and beautifully written. You express this painful and real moment in your families life so sweetly. I don’t know you in “real life” 🙂 Nici but for some crazy reason I feel your open, aware, sweet heart. I see you feeling through all of this heartache and I send you thoughts of peace. Peace in your heart, peace for your family. I know this feeling. I just lost my Lexi after 15 yrs. I heard her collar, her nails and saw her many places in my home after her passing for many months. These beings that come in our lives.. They are our rock steady. Happy, joyful, committed, there always. Thanks for sharing you & these sacred words. They matter and remind me to keep feeling. Love.
Lovely piece of writing…I too had to read it 3 times….I had to keep stopping..I could feel the sadness…..the tears kept coming . I just wanted to say I loved how Alice was so included in your life….sometimes people have pets…..they keep them in the backround …other people have animals…and they are treated like a part of the family…..she clearly was family…..and she knew it…as almost every picture I saw of her she seemed to be smiling..Peace and Blessings to you and your family
thank you for writing about Alice – As I read and sobbed my way through I remembered again my precious Nathaniel and Hope who are no longer with me. They came as newborns and when Hope died of cancer, Nathaniel grieved himself to death I believe. You put everything I felt into words even though they left me 10 years ago. I am sorry for your loss. Children know how to do it – if only we could do the same in Life before we learn we aren’t supposed too
now this, this is the kind of writing I was looking for when my dog died. I didn’t want the rainbow bridge advice, i was not comforted by the dog pin a well intentioned family member sent- I needed well written, heart wrenching words! In the end, I blogged about the end of life ceremony we did for Sterling in the hopes it would bring peace to someone else, someday. Like this piece of yours- Sterling dog passed away over 2 years ago, but posts like this bring back those raw, spiritual memories. Extra love to all and wishing happy memories of Alice to flood over you.
I have followed your blog for several years, but have never commented. I felt the love you had for Alice. My husband and I had a dog who is our baby before we had babies. Norah was our constant companion and the best soul that ever existed. We found out the day before Thanksgiving she had bone cancer after she had been limping for one week. We thought she had sprained her leg after spending the weekend running at my parent’s farm. Two and half weeks later she succumbed to it. She died December 15th. I haven’t gone a day without crying. I miss her so much. Your words are really speaking to me now and I just wanted to say thank you. I’m so sorry for the loss of your dear Alice.
lovely