Angel Someone: How I lost my Dog and Found Compassion

Kudos for “Angel Someone”

February 8, 2010 By Leave a Comment

Angel Someone Book Cover

I never considered myself a “dog-person”, but when Angel died, I started writing to deal with the grief. I didn’t realize what a strong and compassionate community I would find once I shared my pet loss story.

Here’s what some friends have to say about “Angel Someone”:

I’ve just finished ‘Angel Someone’, and wanted to let you know how beautiful and moving and achingly familiar it felt. ~ Rachel

Thank you for sharing so personally. I think lots of people will benefit from releasing a little more of that particular grief that comes with the passing of any of the beings we share our lives with. It is especially difficult when a death is untimely or violent. ~ Ron

I started reading ‘Angel Someone’ while I was at work, thinking, Oh how nice, Missy wrote a cute story about her puppy dog. I should know better by now. I started crying and had to wait ’til I got home to finish it. That moment when you feel their life pass – I get teary-eyed just thinking of it. Thank you so much, what a beautiful story, and especially the honesty about feeling responsible. ~ Roberta

I was surprised, myself, to have written this piece. I was in a memoir-writing class with Tanya Taylor-Rubinstein and starting a book on my first job in the film industry, which I thought was hilarious, but wasn’t coming across that way. Then, one Saturday, Angel was hit by a car. I was shocked at how emotional I was about the event, how it triggered the grief I had experienced over my parents dying, my guilt of not being responsible, the sadness of having someone taken away from me so quickly. Through it all I kept writing. Writing was a solace and a way through the grief.

In fact, when I picked up the manuscript this January, almost three years later, an incredible event happened right before my eyes: I was given a chance to experience the accident all over again, but with a different ending.

Like my sister says above, this isn’t just a cute story about my dog; it is honestly graphic about the event as well as the soul-searching we all do when someone dies. But it is also, I hope, a chance to connect with the reason we grieve; because we love.

Please return to my blog and share your comments on “Angel Someone.” Or share a pet loss story of your own. I gain so much from what others have to say.

Filed Under: Dogs, Downloads, eBook, Testimonials Tagged With: , ,

The Absence of a Loved One

February 1, 2010 By Leave a Comment

Orange kitty in the sunIt’s been over a week since Sparkles died, and the orange cat doesn’t have to share any of the sunlight or the food or the litter box.

While she was sick, it was always a chore to clean up after her, but I knew one day I would be sad she wasn’t around. And today I look at the litter box and I am sad not to see her mess!

Thank you to everyone who read about her last days and commiserated with me in my grief. Several people mentioned they started reading the posts at work and began crying and couldn’t stop. I feel better after I have expressed grief, although I don’t know why that is. I feel washed and purified.

Other people mentioned that they grieved for others when reading her story. I know when my mom died, every little thing that upset me brought that grief back. Like a touchstone, other stories of sadness link back and back through our lives like a string of pearls, moving from one bead to the next. These days I don’t find myself crying over my mom, but that was 18 years ago, so the pain has mellowed.

Feel free to use the comment part of this blog to share any stories of pet loss you have; we all learn from each others’ experiences. The goal, I think, is not to be stronger, but to know there are others who have been there, too, and we are not alone. You can also read the story of the loss of my dog, Angel, in a free pdf by clicking on the book cover in the top right corner of every page on this site.

Filed Under: Cats, Personal Stories, Pet Loss, Sparkles Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

Elegy for a Cat

January 22, 2010 By 1 Comment

Sparkles in 2007, cozy in a "Cuties" box.

I miss the sound of her toenails on the kitchen floor. When I told Asher that this morning, he said, I actually don’t.

I sit down at my desk chair and look down to make sure I don’t bump her, but she’s not there.

We watch a movie tonight and she doesn’t come bugging us to sit in our laps.

She’s gone in that way.

We buried her today, put rocks on top of the dirt, so red in the white snow.

I miss her, in the way that I miss a person when they’re gone. There was a dialogue I had with her that I didn’t have with anyone else, and it wasn’t verbal. It was rooted in family, it made sense in looks and heart. She knew how late I stayed up, she heard how I talked to myself when everyone else was out of the house, she understood my hurt, would find me if I was crying, and hiding. She made me honest and protective.

I miss her in that way, too.

I miss finding her sleeping in the middle of our bed, a curled ballerina, head to her toes, on top of the white down comforter.

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Filed Under: Cats, Personal Stories, Pet Loss, Sparkles Tagged With: , , , ,

Waiting for Transformation

January 21, 2010 By 3 Comments
12:00 noon. I slept for about three hours. Back up and I walk into the living room and to my office door and look at Sparkles, watch to see if she is still breathing. I can’t tell. My eyes are so tired, I’m not sure about what I’m seeing. I kneel down and look closer, into her face and the line down her nose that shows black fur on one side, orange on the other.

She sees me, or senses my presence. Her whiskers twitch. Dear girl, are you still here? Her eyes squint just a fraction. I stroke her paw, her skinny shoulder. Her whole left front leg stretches out to greet me. Big girl, why are you hanging on?

I lie down next to her for a bit. She hasn’t moved her position in ten hours. Each breath is so small. I want her to stop breathing and be at peace. How long can she go on without eating, moving, drinking? I try to force her mouth open to give her water but it is solidly shut. And when I do put water on her lips, the smell is foul.

You take your time, I tell her. But I wonder if she is waiting for something. And I wonder at how strange it is that she got so bad yesterday, as I am in this week-long push to get my “Angel Someone” eBook ready for the Web. Could she be waiting for me to finish it? Or could she be waiting for an empty room, for privacy, as my friend suggested she might? While I napped, my husband was up, and I woke up just as he was leaving to go into town. So there’s always been someone nearby.

It’s hard to type on so little sleep; my fingers forget the keys.

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Filed Under: Cats, Pet Loss, Sparkles Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Today’s Sunrise Sparkles

January 21, 2010 By 3 Comments
8:30a.m. Dying takes concentration, like birthing. Sparkles is very still, very focused. Her left paw and shoulder reach out and I lie next to her for a long while, holding her paw, feeling the sudden jerks in her body that started at dawn.

Asher got up for school and came and sat by her. I made oatmeal with raisins, cinnamon, brown sugar. The black world turned blue, then pink. I let Asher know that if he wanted to, he could stay home from school, but he decides to go. He doesn’t want to stay for his after-school science club, he says. He goes out the door a few minutes after 7, then texts me: Come outside and look at the sunrise. I bring my camera and don’t even take off my slippers. The eastern sky is a colorful bruise.

I come back in and get some pillows and lie down next to this quiet, intense cat. I look into her eyes for a long time. She is so human to me, something about the loss of control of her cat body has made her spirit even more obvious. I watch her eyes focus then unfocus. Her whiskers are almost completely hanging down. Her eyes squint a little when I talk to her, but her ears don’t move at all. I stroke under her chin and she can’t respond. I tell her, You were so good in this life, you should ask for whatever you want in the next one. Don’t forget you were a nurse cat, a bear, you were Sparkles. I’m going to miss you. We’re all going to miss you. Let’s meet up again some time.

Then I started to cry, thinking that we should bury her under the big spruce tree in the back, so I could always look out the window and see her under the tree, like she was sitting under it in the summer for shade, like she was sleeping under the Christmas tree in the winter.

I watch her chest move ever so slightly with her breath and wait for her last one, but I may fall asleep before she goes.

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