About two weeks after my dog died, a small cardboard box arrived in the mail. There’s always an instant of pleasure and anticipation upon discovering an unexpected package in the mailbox, but the moment turned creepy when I saw the return address: It was from the local veterinary clinic where I had so recently taken Terra and returned home alone. Her ashes and collar are buried near our house now. End of story; adios, vet. I could not fathom what this could be, although some macabre possibilities irrationally occurred to me. I shuddered, took a deep breath, and opened the box.
A pastel-colored brochure with the title “Understanding Your Feelings of Loss” rested on top of a mound of bubble wrap. It was all about the grief I would no doubt be experiencing, the various stages I could expect to endure, how natural it was, even a word about how to dismiss the insensitivity of those cruel and uncaring others who may not understand. Grief is complicated, it said. I might feel anger and guilt on the way to acceptance. Day-to-day tasks can seem impossible to perform. I may even wonder if I can go on.
The brochure’s tone was tactful, kindly, and restrained; I imagined the soothing voice of a psychiatrist or a pastor, possibly even Garrison Keillor. And I can now state with conviction that it is perfectly normal to grieve the loss of my pet, and that my feelings, whatever they are, are valid. As a matter of fact, they transcend mere validity; they may well offer evidence of my advanced state of enlightenment, an idea supported with a quote by Anatole France: “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”