Dreams and Happy Endings

October 28, 2017 wasn’t a notable day in many respects. On this sunny Saturday morning in the Year of the Rooster, gas was averaging $2.41 cents a gallon, the Houston Astros were celebrating a win over the LA Dodgers in Game Three of the World Series, and White House Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders was quoted, about the sexual harassment claims against President Trump, as saying, “All of these women are lying.”

I wasn’t focused on the news that morning. I was focused on the yardwork. Taking advantage of the warm fall day, Paul and I went out to the backyard to do a little weeding. Our dog, Tatum, loved to sit on the wooden stoop and watch. His black hair rippled slightly in the wind, creating a stark contrast to our bright red door. Paul nodded in his direction. “That is one good looking dog,” he said with a laugh. I pulled my phone out of my jeans pocket and snapped a picture.

On October 28, 2017, we were still getting used to our quieter Saturdays. Jack was gone—off to college, and Katherine was more independent in her junior year of high school—running cross country, getting involved in theater, studying for exams. It was a glimpse into the life of empty nesting: quiet, comfortable. It was a rare moment when I was fully engaged—not thinking about the news, or the price of gas, or mistakes I made in the past or worries about the future. I was focused on the warmth of the sun on Tatum’s black fur, the trickle of sweat on my chest, the smell of the crisp, fall air.

I had a dream about Tatum last night. In the dream, Paul and I were out. I don’t remember where we were, but we were gone for several hours, and I was worried about our new puppy Lucky being home alone for so long. When we unlocked the door, Lucky was not there, running into the foyer, tail wagging. Where was she? I walked into the sunroom and there they were—Tatum and Lucky, snuggled together.

Tatum. I had forgotten how big he was compared to Lucky. In the dream, I knelt down and put my hands on his thick, black fur. Oh, I forgot how much I missed him. I bent my head toward his and stroked his side. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for taking care of Lucky while we were gone. You’re a good dog and momma misses you.”

When I woke up and replayed the dream in my head, I started to cry. An unexpected lump caught in my throat and salty tears welled in my eyes. How long has it been since Tatum has been gone? I remember the grief of losing him. His steady decline, wrapping a towel around his middle so I could heft him out the two steps out to our yard when his legs no longer supported him consistently. I remember the way he looked up at me, those chocolate brown eyes seeming to know and understand my every emotion. I remember wishing he would pass away at peace in his favorite sunny spot by the window, or maybe under the tall grass in the garden where he liked to hide. But as his mobility lessened and his pain grew, we knew we had to take him to the vet. I remember the vet asked if we wanted to stay in the room or leave. I wanted to leave, but I knew I had to stay. I remember stroking that thick, black fur, knowing it was the last time. Oh, he was a beautiful dog. “You’re a good-looking dog,” Paul used to tell Tatum when he had gotten into some mischief or caused some chaos. “So, you’ve got that going for you.” I remember holding Tatum’s paw—rubbing my thumb back and forth against the rough pad until he was still and my thumb was the only movement in the room. I remember Paul’s raw sobs echoing against the clinical white walls of the vet’s office.

How long does grief last? How long before I stopped feeling like I was coming home to an empty house? How long before I stopped listening for the sounds of his toenails on the hardwood floors? Does grief ever go away, or does it lie dormant, waiting to show up in a dream when you least expect it?

I’ve been thinking about grief lately. Recently, I crossed the year mark of my father’s death. One entire year without him. And I find that grief sneaks up on me. It’s waiting in the kitchen when I pull out the tractor placemats he gave me for Christmas. It’s written in his handwriting in his old checkbook as I’m trying to do his taxes. It’s listening to the news I want to share with him, the questions I want to ask him, the funny anecdotes I know he’d appreciate.

I’m the kind of person who likes to see the finish line. I want to see everything tied up with no loose ends, like a novel—she gets the job, he gets the girl, we find out who done it. Good wins over evil, and a happy-ever-after fairytale ending to you and you and you.

But in life, there are no neat little endings. Because life goes on. One some days, you sit sobbing on the cold porcelain floor of the vet’s office. On other days, you welcome a new puppy into the house. She has a curly tail and the softest ears. And you remember that as much as grief sneaks up on you, so does joy.