Just you and me
“It’s just you and me, Big Meat-head,” I always say through tears to our dog as I pull into the garage of our big empty house.
“The Old Lady is gone.”
My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. I miss her dearly.
Before my female readers go ballistic over my use of the term “Old Lady,” I should note it was a term of endearment. I treasured her, and was extremely attached.
She referred to me as “the Old Man.”
Every dog I’ve ever had I’ve called “Meat-head.” What I say is it’s like “pot-head,” except they like meat.
I always refer to her as “our” dog, because my wife and I picked her out.
The dog is a rescue Irish-Setter from Ohio. A “rescue” is from a bad home, abusive or a puppy-mill (this dog was from a failed backyard breeder). By getting a rescue, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —This dog isn't bad.
I am the alpha-dog of our pack — only two dogs (me and the dog). The dog is my faithful companion and thinks I’m wonderful, despite my grief-stricken condition.
The dog was supposed to be a therapy-dog, but I think she would have failed.
She’s a people-dog, but too high-energy.
I wasn’t sure I should take her, but figured I could, since I had just come off a high-energy Irish-Setter.
I made a deal with the dog; I would do my best.
So now I feel like I’m failing her being so grief-stricken.
But I guess I’m not. She still thinks I’m wonderful.
But now it’s just me and the dog — no wife.
It’s sad I have to shove her aside to pursue my own requirements.
And I can’t play with her.
I have to reduce my attention to do all the processing I’ve taken on.
“The Old Lady is gone.”
My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. I miss her dearly.
Before my female readers go ballistic over my use of the term “Old Lady,” I should note it was a term of endearment. I treasured her, and was extremely attached.
She referred to me as “the Old Man.”
Every dog I’ve ever had I’ve called “Meat-head.” What I say is it’s like “pot-head,” except they like meat.
I always refer to her as “our” dog, because my wife and I picked her out.
The dog is a rescue Irish-Setter from Ohio. A “rescue” is from a bad home, abusive or a puppy-mill (this dog was from a failed backyard breeder). By getting a rescue, I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —This dog isn't bad.
I am the alpha-dog of our pack — only two dogs (me and the dog). The dog is my faithful companion and thinks I’m wonderful, despite my grief-stricken condition.
The dog was supposed to be a therapy-dog, but I think she would have failed.
She’s a people-dog, but too high-energy.
I wasn’t sure I should take her, but figured I could, since I had just come off a high-energy Irish-Setter.
I made a deal with the dog; I would do my best.
So now I feel like I’m failing her being so grief-stricken.
But I guess I’m not. She still thinks I’m wonderful.
But now it’s just me and the dog — no wife.
It’s sad I have to shove her aside to pursue my own requirements.
And I can’t play with her.
I have to reduce my attention to do all the processing I’ve taken on.
Labels: grief-share
posted by BobbaLew at 8:31 AM
1 Comments:
I wonder what Meat-Head's name for you is...
The very first dog my family had was a chow adoptee from the Humane Society. We could never have a pet with fur or hair because my older son was so allergic. But when we discovered at 13 years old that he had an immune deficiency disease and was not asthmatic or allergic, the only positive was that he could have a dog. His body did not have the capability of being allergic. He was infatuated with chows and though we wouldn't spend the money to buy a purebred chow $$$$ sure enough one surfaced at the Humane Society. Chowdie was a loving female red, but little did we know that she had multiple phobias. We learned the hard way that she had separation anxiety. When we were gone from the house, she would walk into any room, push the door closed, then proceed to claw and bite her way out. She destroyed walls, doors, molding, carpet...and did I mention that we had just built a brand new house? She went out of her mind in thunderstorms, even the rumbling sound of the snowplows would set her off. Many times I came home to find she had pushed herself through the window AC in the second story bedroom down onto the deck below and was outside waiting for me. How she survived those falls is a mystery yet. More to this story in the next comment...
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