Please say the wrong thing

My dog died suddenly and your co-misery is sustaining me

She was not a ‘fur baby’. She didn’t ‘cross the rainbow bridge’. This in no way compares to any human loss.

She was a dog.

She went through two college students and three names before we got her at 14 months old. She came from a great breeder who was quite upset when she found out her original owner sold her on Craigslist. We found her via text message from a friend, saying her daughter’s coworker’s roommate had a Great Dane she couldn’t keep. She broke my collarbone in the first 48 hours of living with us. We weren’t sure we could handle her or keep her.

But we were stuck with her, because we loved her fully and immediately. We named her Sister and called her Sissy - along with all the other nicknames she picked up along with way.

She had all sorts of issues - she was never really socialized, she bolted after squirrels (hence the broken collarbone), she barked too much, she didn’t really like to be petted, she lost her mind going to the vet, she was scared of everything. Jeff called them her ‘nonconformities’.

But she was the goofiest, most talkative, most beautiful, funniest, most full of personality dog we had ever met.

Lately, we would play a game where I would hide treats around the room for her to find while we were getting ready for bed. She would bark at me when it was time to play.

But she was terrible at the game! she could remember all the places I put the treats the night before, and she’d step on the current treats on her way to the last hiding places. We would shake our heads in mock disappointment. Her drug-sniffing dog career was over before it started.

But she was certified ‘bathroom search and rescue’. If you put a door between you and her, she’d stand there staring at it, ready to spring into action and get you out.

She died three days ago, a month shy of her 8th birthday.

‘Great Danes don’t live very long.’

I read a lot about all the things you shouldn’t say when someone is in grief or pain. I have heard them all in these last few days.

And I am here to tell you that they help - every last ‘wrong’ thing that seems boneheaded or shortsighted has been a balm to me, because I feel how much you care.

When you say that? - that Danes don’t live very long - I don’t feel you adding to my pain (I mean, you can’t anyway), I feel how you understand. You empathize. You know the courage that jumping off this particular cliff of love requires. Thank you.

In the midst of this ordeal - when Sissy was sick but before she died - I was talking with a neighbor, and he shared that his own dog had some medical issues, and his family was also having another crisis.

’You definitely win the suffering contest’, I said. And he was mortified! ‘I didn’t mean to diminish what you’re going through!’, he said. But I was just trying to add some levity to a sucky situation, and I told him actually, it made me feel better that he shared what was also going on with him.

’We’re commiserating,’ I told him. Co-misery. ‘You get it, you’re sharing that you’ve been in this place before, that you’re here now. That neither one of us is alone’. Thank you.

She woke us up at 2am on Tuesday (it hasn’t even been a week).

She was panting and uncomfortable, moving from my side of the bed to Jeff’s. Something was wrong.

I called the vet when they opened at 7, and they said the first appointment they had was at 9:30, but I should bring her in sooner if I felt it couldn’t wait. By 7:30, I knew we had to go.

At first, they couldn’t really tell what was up. The vet called her ‘ADR’ (‘ain’t doing right’), but they didn’t know why. Then some tests revealed blood in her abdomen, and the vet sat down and started speaking slowly and seriously.

She had a mass on her spleen, and she needed surgery immediately or she would die. There was a 75% chance it was cancer. I texted Jeff at work to come right away, and then texted all our family and friends. We needed prayers. We needed to feel everyone’s presence and love for us.

Sissy got through the surgery beautifully. Her red blood cell count never dipped below normal, though they took 2 liters of blood from her belly. They sent her spleen for biopsy. We took her home and started spoiling her even more ridiculously. I slept on the couch to be near her (no stairs for her).

She had a post-op check and she was doing great. She was starting to be herself again - a little salty about having to take 8 pills a day. I offered her one wrapped in cheese and she just gave me a look: ‘That is the oldest trick in the book’.

I took out the pill and gave her the cheese anyway. She dropped in on the floor: ‘Tainted’.

That’s our girl.

Then on Friday we got the call that we hadn’t even dared to imagine - the growth on her spleen was not cancer. She would be just fine! It was a miracle. We hugged and kissed her and texted everyone the good news and they rejoiced with us.

While I had the vet on the phone, I had mentioned she seemed a little uncomfortable again, panting like she had before. We went over the checklist of things to look out for - all negative - and the vet said it was likely because she hadn’t pooped since the surgery, and that would probably hurt the first time.

So I took her outside, and she managed to go. And then she couldn’t stop. And then she laid down and couldn’t get back up, and I knew something was very wrong.

Jeff and I wrestled her into the car, and he drove as fast as he could through Friday afternoon traffic while I held Sissy’s head and whispered how much we loved her. I could feel her ears getting cold, and see her tongue turning gray. I looked in her eyes and I knew we were losing her.

When we got the vet, the whole staff came out, and Jeff helped lift her on a gurney with them, but I could not watch. I just curled up on the sidewalk, sobbing.

Turns out she had a blood clot that lodged in her heart, and there wasn’t anything they could do. Just hours after the call saying she would fully recover, just days after everything seemed normal, she was gone.

I still can’t believe it, and I still can’t stop crying.

I don’t believe dogs go to heaven.

I know this is an unpopular opinion. But I believe that as humans, we are made in the image of God. And humans alone are on the journey back to God, spending this life learning to love and be loved, and failing and rejoicing as we grow. Only humans sin, and only humans need to be saved and redeemed, and we are.

Only humans know we are going to die, and as Christians we believe in eternal life through Jesus’ resurrection. This is the only way we can bear the grief of losing one another - that we have hope we will be reunited.

I believe that animals are part of God’s creation - created fully and perfectly as the expression of God’s love. They are innocent, they do not sin, they have no need to be reconciled with God. They are not on the same journey that we are as humans, and that is part of why we love them so much. They’re perfect.

Sissy, despite her nonconformities, was exactly as she was made. Her life needed no transformation or forgiveness.

But because of this, I don’t believe we’ll see our pets again. I believe they’re like supernovas or flowers - exquisite in their beauty, adding to the richness of our lives in immeasurable ways, but fleeting.

But if you want to tell me how you see Sissy running free in a field, waiting for me on the other side of the rainbow bridge (as several people have already), I will hug you. I will thank you. I can’t agree with you but I will most certainly gain comfort from your beliefs.

She loved Jeff best.

That is simply the truth. He was her favorite human. She would try to get in the way when he hugged me. She’d take my place on the couch. She nibbled his ears in adoration. Only Jeff could cut her nails. Only for Jeff would her big tail start thumping on the floor - even when she was mostly asleep - when he walked into the room.

Still, I work from home and I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself today, as Jeff goes back to the office and I face a whole series of hours unbound by her schedule (a walk, some lunch, the tug of a toy, a kiss on her big bony head). Or how I’ll be able to bear the silence, without her snoring (and let’s face it, farting) nearby. Without her frequent bursts of barking, incensed that other dogs dare to walk down the street. Without having to explain on every video call that I have a Great Dane, and sometimes she wants to join the conversation.

”Hearts up!” is what we say at the spiritual gym. It’s the most ancient act of Christian worship.

The Sursum Corda - ‘Lift up your hearts’, ‘we lift them to the Lord’.

I’m lifting my heart to God because I don’t know what else to do while I wander around feeling this pain and grief. Wanting my dog back. I lift up my heart to the God who created the whole world and everything in it, who gave me as a human the command to care for creation, including all animals, including Sissy.

A God who sustains me in my grief. And loves me fully.

You have sustained me, too.

All my beautiful friends and family who have texted and called. Neighbors and friends who have sent flowers.

And every one of you who has said the ‘wrong’ thing - who has commiserated with us by sharing the heartbreak of your lost pets, your grief, how you know just how we feel. You do, I’m glad you do. Because you know this kind of love.

Jeff and I used to joke that Sissy wasn’t quite a great Dane. We’d call her a ‘pretty good’ Dane, Jeff said she was trending. But we agreed by unanimous vote to posthumously grant her the full title.

And yes, we will get another dog, as soon as the fog of grief lifts sufficiently. Thank you for asking.

It will be a Great Dane. Yes, I know they don’t live very long. I love you for saying that.


Hearts up!

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