There’s a new dog in the Ortberg-Lavery household this week by the name of Wilson – Mr. Wilson, as I have been calling him, is actually a bastardization given to him by Nicole’s eldest child Amelia – who’s staying with us as a guest for the next week and a half. As you might imagine, I’ve been almost frantic over the prospect of getting to ruffle his ears and speak to him, and it’s been simultaneously thrilling and painful to have an animal in the house again. A few times in the night I woke up to the sounds of Mr. Wilson snoring, and the sound was so like Murphy’s snores that my heart leapt within me to think somehow the laws of magic and attraction and confusion had summoned him back into bed with us. He is in many ways so like Murphy – same teacup head, same stout gravity, same feathered ribbons of fur along his paws, same smartly-saluting wing of tail, same habits when eating peanut butter from a spoon – that the ways in which he is not like him come as a surprise. Mr. Wilson is in rude good health where Murphy was a shivering collection of broken-down parts, a rag and a bone and a hank of hair. Mr. Wilson is not offended by being picked up and carried. Mr. Wilson smells good, and has tidy white teeth. His back feet splay differently when he sits, his ears flop over in an unlike arrangement to Murphy’s
I think that sometimes an animal will find the hole in your heart that is shaped like the animal you lost, and find ways to mold themselves to better fill the hole. It's never quite the same, but it can be close. I'm glad Mr. Wilson is around to soak up some of your excess dog love that would otherwise transmute to sorrow <3
Dabbing at my eyes at work now. It has been 16 years since my first dog passed. Sasha was a golden retriever with all of their generalities and many of her own specifics (preferred squeaky alligators to other toy shapes, sang delightfully for pancakes, learned to tuck her tags into her mouth if she wanted to stalk ducks silently). 16 years and I STILL dream that she is somehow, miraculously discovered alive. This piece really hit home for me. As much as I would love another golden, I don't think it would work. I adopted a very differently tempered shelter mutt 5 years ago, and while it didn't diminish the missing of Sasha that will always be there, in some way, he adds a different kind of dog love and presence to my life.
This is one of the most beautiful and human things I’ve ever read, and I’m suddenly and conspicuously crying on the train, and I’ve never owned a dog and am largely indifferent to them, and I don’t know you at all but I love you, thank you so much.
My mother had a habit of giving away our pets after a few years when I was a kid. She always had a cheerful, nonsensical reason. ("We want a girl cat, not a boy cat, so I gave Elmo to your cousins!" As you might expect, no one had previously expressed a desire for any particular sex of cat, and all this did was leave me with a strong desire for my particular Elmo). We only had one dog that was allowed to stay with us until the end of her lovely long life. I never understood how she could so casually replace one pet with the next, and every one of those animals has a them-shaped spot in my heart. Recently, she gave away her own dog to me. Riley lives with my husband and I now, and she is very happy, and she also loves my mother so much still, because she is capable of such complete forgiving compassionate love that it makes me cry sometimes.
I’ve come back to this piece several times over the last month, partly to re-feel the exquisite pain of “he is not my dog, who died even though I love him.” The first time I got to that part and started ugly-crying over my morning coffee so hard I couldn’t finish the last paragraph. It is so validating and tender a way to recognize the uniqueness of each trusting creature’s little life.
I think that sometimes an animal will find the hole in your heart that is shaped like the animal you lost, and find ways to mold themselves to better fill the hole. It's never quite the same, but it can be close. I'm glad Mr. Wilson is around to soak up some of your excess dog love that would otherwise transmute to sorrow <3
Dabbing at my eyes at work now. It has been 16 years since my first dog passed. Sasha was a golden retriever with all of their generalities and many of her own specifics (preferred squeaky alligators to other toy shapes, sang delightfully for pancakes, learned to tuck her tags into her mouth if she wanted to stalk ducks silently). 16 years and I STILL dream that she is somehow, miraculously discovered alive. This piece really hit home for me. As much as I would love another golden, I don't think it would work. I adopted a very differently tempered shelter mutt 5 years ago, and while it didn't diminish the missing of Sasha that will always be there, in some way, he adds a different kind of dog love and presence to my life.
This is one of the most beautiful and human things I’ve ever read, and I’m suddenly and conspicuously crying on the train, and I’ve never owned a dog and am largely indifferent to them, and I don’t know you at all but I love you, thank you so much.
My mother had a habit of giving away our pets after a few years when I was a kid. She always had a cheerful, nonsensical reason. ("We want a girl cat, not a boy cat, so I gave Elmo to your cousins!" As you might expect, no one had previously expressed a desire for any particular sex of cat, and all this did was leave me with a strong desire for my particular Elmo). We only had one dog that was allowed to stay with us until the end of her lovely long life. I never understood how she could so casually replace one pet with the next, and every one of those animals has a them-shaped spot in my heart. Recently, she gave away her own dog to me. Riley lives with my husband and I now, and she is very happy, and she also loves my mother so much still, because she is capable of such complete forgiving compassionate love that it makes me cry sometimes.
I’ve come back to this piece several times over the last month, partly to re-feel the exquisite pain of “he is not my dog, who died even though I love him.” The first time I got to that part and started ugly-crying over my morning coffee so hard I couldn’t finish the last paragraph. It is so validating and tender a way to recognize the uniqueness of each trusting creature’s little life.
"Mr. Jollyeffort" put me in paroxysms.