I’d always taken denial somewhat literally. When I’d think of denial, I’d think of someone consciously rejecting the truth. Someone making a concerted effort to pretend something.
The thing about death, though, (especially the death of someone close to you) is that it’s the loss of someone very close to you. Someone you got used to having around. The sun rises in the East, sets in the West, and they’ll always be there. Those things were true. And so when they finally go, you sometimes … forget .. that they’re gone.
Maybe that’s a form of denial, the forgetting. I suppose it’s what people mean when they say things like “Oh god, he’s really gone.” That’s them remembering.
I’ve never really lost someone close to me. I’ve lost three grandparents, all of whom I loved and deeply cared about, but none of which were daily (or even monthly) fixtures in my life. I don’t know what it’ll be like when I finally lose someone truly close to me.
Hopefully I’ll remember. Because the biggest problem with all these forgettings is that when you remember, it’s almost like losing them all over again.
That’s what my sister called him. She’d brought him with her to San Francisco from Savannah when she moved in 2001, and for as long as I can remember, that’s been her name for him.
(I called him Gustafson, mostly as a nod to Hank Azaria’s character on Mad About You)
I know most everyone that owns a dog considers them to be a member of the family, and in that regard I suppose we’re not too unique. But what was special was that since we all lived in the Bay Area and saw each other on at least a monthly basis, we saw Guss just as frequently. As much as he was my sister’s “kid,” he was my mom’s grandkid and my nephew.
And we watched him grow up. From a puppy to a puppy that doesn’t realize it’s 70lbs and huge, to a full-grown dog. And it was just as amazing as watching a child grow. Everyone knows their pets have personalities, but to actually see it develop. To see it go from a rambunctious, clumsy, oversized puppy to a playful, energetic adolescent, to a sure-footed, deliberate, incredibly loving adult.
Guss was a good dog. Happy, loving, and energetic. Right up until last night, when the cancer finally got him. The doctors had told us he had three months. He got twelve, almost to the day. He was loved, far, far greater than he’d ever know, and he wasn’t alone when he went. He was looking into the eyes of his mommy.
G’bye, Gussy-poo. We’ll miss you. Nine years wasn’t near enough.
Over the weekend I noticed an odd growth on JD’s underside, so I took him and Turk to the vet this morning to get it checked out. Four hundred bucks later, the [supposedly benign] tumor was successfully removed. It’s a funny, the lengths to which we’ll go (and pay) for the animals we designate as “ours.”
They’re spending the night at the vet’s recovering, though I’m not too sure how happy they are about that. This was their first trip to a vet in the year that I’ve owned them, and I don’t think they much appreciated having some strange man poke and prod them. The good news is that, benign tumors aside, they’re very healthy rats. Hopefully that means they’ll live a little longer than their 2-3 year life expectancy. You can’t help but sometimes feel a little silly for dropping so much money on something that is outlived by internet memes (the lolcat phenomenon is over four years old).
Still, I’m glad they’re okay and that they’ll be with me a little bit longer, especially since I went through all the trouble of building them a new home and everything. A home that I feel I’ll need to shower with gifts and goodies to make up for the trauma of a vet visit.
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