My six-year-old daughter, Opal, wants nothing more than to go to the Humane Society to visit the dogs that “need the most love.” So we leave right after half a day of school to do just that, eating almond butter and jelly sandwiches on the way.
The entrance to the Boulder Valley Humane Society smells like wood chips. There’s a stack of hamster cages by the front door, placed like intended motivational purchases, like lip balm and mints at Target.
“May I help you?” says the nice lady behind the counter with a mouth that has more gums than teeth. I told her we would like to visit a dog or two that needed special love.
“Hmm,” she says, thinking with a closed-mouthed smile. “Yes, Leo might need a visit. He’s big, isn’t he?”
We have an 85 pound lab at home. I assure her that we are used to the big one.
We find Leo sleeping on a bed in a very large box with a bone-shaped sign reading “Pie, Baby.” He is a five-year-old pitbull with a face as wide as a loaf of bread and fur the shade of sand. We return to the front room where we wait for a member of staff to bring him out.
As we walked through the halls, I noticed that many of the dogs—but not all—had the same bone tags hanging from their cages, but all with different descriptions: “Fun!” “shy.” It occurs to me that unlabeled people should not be explicit about their nameable characteristics. In my mind I imagine hosting a party in the New Year where I will have each guest wear a small sign around their neck that states one of their outstanding qualities: People pleasing. observer. Perfection.
Leo bursts through the swinging doors, pulling one of the employees behind him on a pink leash. This should be an indication of where we’re at, but I’ll grab the leash anyway and we’ll head out the front doors. Walking this dog is basically like walking with a buck facing in the opposite direction. I try desperately to keep my footing as he drags me down a muddy slope and we leave Opal behind, screaming or!
Giving love to this dog proved to be a daunting task. So we start heading back towards the building we came from.
As we walked, I noticed that fur was missing from the tops of Leo’s ears, and there were chalky, mushroom-shaped lumps on his skin where hair should grow. Same thing on the back of his legs. There are pin lines in its short fur where no hair grows, which are more subtle than scars that might come from the mouth or claws of another animal.
Opal says, “Why does he look like that?”
I told her it looked like he was in a fight with another dog. Harmless enough – animals fight. I’m not saying it looks like he might have been inside Air battles. He may have been rescued from a difficult situation with an abusive owner or an owner who condones violence. This is the kind of scenario that gives pit bulls a bad reputation. He’s horribly restrained – my hands were left red and burned from the pulling – but he doesn’t seem to have any fear or aggression towards people. This to me is a marvel.
Upon our return, we saw a man playing with a pitbull puppy, smiling and laughing as the puppy climbed onto his lap and then flopped onto his side. I can see that Opal wants Which Experience, so we scratch Leo’s head last and then ask to replace him with a puppy.
Discomfort, confusion, and coming back to being
We take one of seven pit bull puppies to a fenced area outside. The fresh air and puppy energy feel great. It is as small as a football and is pure black except for its belly and the tips of its paws, which are pure white. Watching him stagger and stumble from point A to point B is pure comedy. Opal is happily beside herself.
Then you ask the inevitable question: “Can we take him home?”
I tell her no. A puppy requires a lot of work. They defecate and chew everything. But we can come and visit him next week.
“What if he’s gone by then?”
Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is playing on the radio —Take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see her in the rearview mirror staring out the window with a million-mile-away look.
I told her that if he left, it would mean he was adopted by a good family. These puppies will likely be adopted very quickly.
Opal doesn’t say much on the way home. The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is playing on the radio —Take these broken wings and learn to fly. I can see her in the rearview mirror staring out the window with a million-mile-away look.
At home, Opal rests her body on my lap while we sit on the couch. Our huge lab snores at my feet. Opal sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve periodically. I stroke her hair.
She says, “What if no one wants to adopt Leo?” Small, full tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.
I told Opal that maybe we shouldn’t go back to the Humane Society if it would break her heart. But this upset her even more and she soon realized that these words went against everything we had been teaching her.
We, the Grimes, have spent the better part of a year as a foster family. We often talk about how we never need to be ashamed of it Great feelingsespecially when it comes in the form of repercussions for helping others. But it is common for us to tense up or cower in the face of unhappiness, wanting to protect others from the pain of being human.
“Honey, the Humane Society will find a good home for Leo. And for the little puppy and all of his brothers and sisters.”
“But what if it’s the man who adopts her He means?
I know there are no shortcuts to the other side of grief other than going during He – she.
“Oh dear,” I say. I’m always at odds with how much truth to share with her about this crazy, uncertain, often terrifying but also beautiful and miraculous world. I go back and forth between feeling like I’m saying too much, and not knowing what else to say.
So I simply come back interest– For my own thoughts, for my discomfort, for my shallow breathing, for my desire to talk about happier things – because I know that there are no shortcuts to the other side of grief except to go during He – she.
I ask: “Can you take a deep breath with me?”
“Yes.” She looks at me now as we are Inhale and exhale. Intermittent and partial breaths at first, then calm and deep.
“Hey, it’s okay to feel sad, honey. The truth is, there’s a lot of sadness in the world. We’re just continuing to do what we can. And you did a good job today, offering love the way you did.”
At that moment, she stood up, gathered herself, and gave me a small but genuine smile as she went about her day.
Realization: It’s okay to feel my sadness, too
Two days later, we took a trip to visit our beloved, almost 1-year-old who had moved back in with her parents three weeks earlier. This baby, we’ll call her Little Blue Eyes.
I am so happy to find that she seems happy and healthy, and very attached to her mother. She has a wonderful room with quilts on the walls, and lots of toys and books. Their pitbull bears an uncanny resemblance to that of human society, although considerably quieter and more civilized.
I didn’t realize it, but a lot of the feelings of loss I was feeling were mixed in with the noise of vacations and travel. the sadness She is immediately present when I look at her face and hear her say OpalOpal.
All good news. However, even though we will likely see her again, this visit feels like a farewell. Little Blue Eyes came home days before Christmas and I didn’t realize it, but a lot of the feelings of loss I was feeling were mixed in with the hustle and bustle of the holidays and travel. The sadness is immediately present when I lay my eyes on her face and hear her say OpalOpal.
Sadness feels like fatigue at first, then feeling very angry during dinner. Then, later, after Opal falls asleep, a stream of tears comes as if a valve has burst behind my eyes. I can’t stop it, even though it’s my first Inclination It does just that. My conscious self tells me that crying is a normal, healthy response, and that I can relax with my sadness. But my body – its bones and muscles – wants it Make the discomfort go away. I am aware of all this.
I headed into our bedroom where Jesse was watching TV. He sees my face and says: “Little blue eyes?”
I think about how intense these feelings are for me, a “strong adult,” and I can only imagine how the same overwhelming feelings must feel for my daughter, who has only been on this planet for six years and has much less experience seeing her feelings through to the other side. It’s up to us to show her that feelings are fluid, always in flux.
I nod and lie down next to him. I laid my head on his chest like Opal had done to me a few days ago. His heart beats in my ear like a distant drum against my erratic breathing. I think about how intense these feelings are for me, a “strong adult,” and I can only imagine how the same overwhelming feelings must feel for my daughter, who has only been on this planet for six years and has much less experience seeing her feelings through to the other side. It’s up to us to show her that feelings are fluid, always in flux.
“It’s okay to feel sad,” Jesse told me. “I feel sad too.”
These are the same words I spoke to Opal when we were on the couch, in the same compassionate tone. I sit up and extend my arms up and out to the sides, the sound of the internal movement like a soft rumble deep in my ear canals. Some life is returning to my bones.
These words, “It’s okay to feel sad,” open a window into the small, stifling room of emotions in which I sit. It’s not stuffy anymore. This is what happens when I make it a point to not try to manipulate, hide, or wrestle with my grief. I can let it wander more freely until it dissolves naturally and eventually on the back of an unexpected exhale.
