From a Labrador Retriever

Awakened by my pet at 3:00am, I moan….

“Indy. . .”

“Seriously?”

 

A refrain I speak to my pet and my widowed life regularly.

 

On par with life, her wee-hour pee evolves, occasionally, into something more complicated if a possum, racoon, or other nighttime critter makes an appearance. This morning’s call from nature was quick and easy.

The range of happenings feels familiar to what I experience in widowed life.

Sometimes what widowed life asks of me is subtle and below the radar. A quiet house and cooking for one. After the initial shock of things, their newness moves to the background. I take it in stride.

Other times what widowhood asks does not feel fair, or even possible. As a dog-mom who never took our dogs to vet, this felt insurmountable at first. Or the time a family of raccoons nested under the house, driving Indy crazy as she could hear them beneath our wood floors. I mean, seriously??

 

Responding vs Reacting

 

Indy’s age lines up exactly with my widowhood. She is four years old; I am four years widowed. Her stages and mine have overlapped, particularly in regard to reaction vs response. If she is lying on the back porch, overseeing her kingdom, or if her hair is standing straight up on her back, nervous system on high alert, she is responding or reacting based on her observations and internal instincts.

 

As do I.

 

Early in my widowed journey, I felt surprised at how often I was on high alert. Not that I did not do that before Dan passed, but now it felt like my body was ever on high alert. In emergency mode waiting for danger to show itself fully. I could feel it–some would say I would draw it to myself–waiting just around the corner. My nervous system was ready for the next bad thing to happen.

 

The learning goes both ways.

 

Indy taught me patience as she matured. What I ask of her, what I expect from her, mimics my child rearing practices as I hold the line tight at times and loose at others.

Traveling my widowed journey seems to be following a similar trajectory. After a trauma on Halloween in year one, I stopped celebrating that holiday at my house. I went shopping and to a movie with my friend on year 2, and 3, leaving the house candy-less and dark. I returned after all the trick-or-treaters were gone.

This year I bought a six-dollar pair of silver glitter pants, contemplating the return of that holiday into my reality. Next stop, thrifting for a glitter top and buying an outrageous color for my hair. House will have decorations, be well-lit, and full of candy. I feel ready.

 

My dog and I sleep in my full-size bed and make space for each other. We are each doing our best; her with a papa she never met, and me with the love of my life watching over me from a place unknown to me.

One day at a time, we are making our way.