Cogent thought

I encountered an interesting thought at my grief-share last night (Wednesday, October 3, 2012).
I attend a grief-share because my beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.
A grief-share doesn’t cure grief. Nothing cures grief. A grief-share just shares it. People there, experiencing similar grief, know where I’m coming from. Most outsiders don’t.
It was the first grief-share I’ve been able to attend since September 12th. A grief-share has been held every Wednesday since July.
I wasn’t able to attend September 19th because I was attending the 50th reunion of my high-school class in northern Delaware.
On the 26th I had driven to Altoona, Pennsylvania to chase trains with a fellow railfan I know down there.
I’m a railfan and have been since age-2.
The reunion went fairly well because I was with relatives. The train-chase was somewhat depressing due to lack of a wife.
I’d find myself alone.
As is common, the thought occurred following the official grief-share session as I was fixing to leave.
Everyone else had left, so it was just me and the two facilitators.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” one said.
“I’ve heard that hundreds of times,” I said; “but I never know what it means.”
“Grief is a long process. You go through it slowly.”
“So what am I doing wrong?” I asked.
“Don’t expect things quickly.”
“I always feel sad about my dog,” I said. “Like I’m failing her.
I know I’m not, but I feel like I am. It’s almost like I feel worse about that dog than about the loss of my wife.”
Now comes the cogent thought.
“You’re transferring caring about your wife to your dog,” a facilitator said.
“This happens often. Did you care about that dog that much before your wife died?”
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“But I made a deal. That dog was very high-energy when we got her. I was 64. I promised I’d try my best.”
“Dogs don’t hold you to a contract. She knows that you care about her. Long walks in the woods, food, shelter, company.”
“But I can’t play with her any more, or point out critters.
Yet she still loves me, and is thrilled when I rescue her from the boarder. She also sleeps with me.”
“You’re transferring caring about your wife to your dog. That dog needs you, and you need it.”
“Yeah, a normal dog taken care of by a wreck. I’m distraught and heartbroken.”
“Distraught and heartbroken by your wife’s passing. Your dog doesn’t know that. Or perhaps she does, and she tries to make you happy.”

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is our sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s our third rescue.)