Grief Below the Surface

I am experiencing grief in a new way.

It's not overwhelming, but it lurks just below the surface. I got home earlier this week from an intense 12-day trip to Berlin and Auschwitz, Poland, to learn about the Holocaust. It was physically and mentally exhausting. Less than a day after getting home, one of my dogs, a 12-1/2 year old papillon, died suddenly as I rushed her to the emergency veterinary hospital. She had been in good health, and just a few hours earlier she covered my face with kisses as I drove her, her sister and my other dog home from the boarding kennel where they had stayed many times.

This little dog hadn't been an easy dog. She had lots of attitude and a rather demanding personality. But she had come a long way since I adopted her and her sister 7 years ago, and she now rarely acted out when she saw other dogs. Regardless of the challenges she sometimes presented, I cared deeply about her and was both shocked and saddened by her sudden death.

I still feel very sad, and I continue to look for her before realizing that she is no longer here. Fortunately, her sister shows no outward signs of distress over the sudden loss of her littermate.

The sadness of Auschwitz, the final walk through the gas chamber and crematorium at the original death camp, reviewing my 1000+ photos and preparing some of them to share with the rest of my group, writing a blog post about my experiences, and the death of little Bailey -- all created a deep pool of grief. But the grief isn't manifest with sobs and incessant tears. Instead, little things will cause, as they say, my eyes to leak. 

Today I received a sympathy card from the veterinarian who tried unsuccessfully to save Bailey. That brought tears. I try to avoid people in my neighborhood who are used to seeing me walk three dogs, because I don't want to explain why I am walking only two. I still expect to see Bailey in her favorite spot near my desk as I edit photos or write. I have cleaned and put her food dish away. Her leash hangs on the hook in the laundry room, unused. Her special beaded collar that I bought in Kenya sits, no longer needed, on my night table in the bedroom.

I have been through the loss of close to a dozen dogs in my lifetime, some with which I had a special bond. But just because I didn't have a special bond with Bailey doesn't mean I didn't care about her. She got the same care, the same attention, the same grooming and quality food and veterinary care, as all my dogs have received. This little 14-pound Munchlet, as I called her (her slightly larger, 20-pound sister is known as Munchkin), took up a bigger place in my heart than I knew.