I started crying when I opened the cereal cupboard this morning. One of the things Vinnie would still eat in his last days was cereal. His favorites were oatmeal, Life (not the Target brand) and Quaker Oat Squares. I don’t think he felt well when he got up and licking the dregs of my cereal bowl and snitching a few crumbs of muffin or toast helped get him started toward eating his own breakfast. On Sunday, when he didn’t finish my oatmeal, I knew we were in trouble.

Unlike cats, dogs are so full of there-ness. Cats slink around, discreetly tending their own business and deigning to interact with humans when it suits them. But dogs are stinky-breathed, crotch-licking, food-stealing creatures of boundless need. You can’t avoid dogs. They are in your face, in your bed and on your favorite chair. They are come-on-get-up-I-have-to-pee-at-1-AM, let’s hunt squirrels and chipmunks,  terrorize the cat, chase the Kong toy, hump the dog bed along with certain guests, secretly crap on the dining room rug, eat unrecognizable things off the pavement and bark maniacally at the doorbell. At least that was Vinnie’s version of there-ness, all of which had begun to fade in recent months.

It is the absence of there-ness that makes loss so hard. Not just the terrible physical loss of the animal, but it’s all their stuff and the routines that become so ingrained in us that when they’re suddenly snatched away, we feel like we’ve been cast into another universe.

Caring for Vinnie was a lifestyle. His chronic liver disease required carefully administered medications along with frequent trips to a specialist vet. Our morning conversation usually consisted of one of us asking the other about what, if anything, Vinnie ate for breakfast and the quality of his poop. The wall calendar is marked with red “P’s” to remind us of the alternating days he got prednisone. We rarely traveled because we needed the pet-sitter at least four times a day.

Now the plastic tub of medications that sat on our kitchen counter for four years is gone. There are no more zip-lock bags of cooked ground beef in the refrigerator. My husband dis-assembled Vinnie’s crate that stood beside our bed since we rescued him in 2013 and took it down to the basement. We kept it covered with towels, like a birdcage, so Vinnie wouldn’t erupt in frantic barking if the cat crept into our room at night. I washed his bowls and put them away in the pantry, perhaps for future use, but relieved of the heartbreak of seeing barely eaten bowls of food sitting up on the counter.

There will be no more computer-generated voicemails from CVS informing us that a prescription for “Vinniedog” is ready for pick-up. I threw away the post-its scribbled with his latest liver enzyme numbers and lab results, along with the bulging file folder containing his medical records. I will no longer feel the polite tap of Vinnie’s paw when I’m eating, reminding me that he would like a sample of whatever is on my plate. His collar rests on my husband’s workbench in the garage because we don’t want our other dog to hear its distinctive jingle and think Vinnie is here somewhere. She’s been bossing him around ever since she arrived as a puppy seven years ago and now looks lost.

Dogs ferret out human love with the same intensity they worry a bone or snuffle down a chipmunk hole. They won’t take no for an answer. They urge us out of our complacency and oh-so-busy lives to feed them and take them outside and clean up their messes. Their need for us is all consuming as is ours for them. And when there are finally no more balls to throw or pills to give, we scramble to create an absence of their there-ness, so we don’t turn into puddles of mush at the sight of a worn and faded collar or half-empty bag of treats. But our dogs have nestled into us just like they have the top of the couch cushions which will never really return to their original shape. Neither will we.

That I’m married to the right person.

That pets, even high-maintenance ones like ours, are a blessing and a comfort. (mostly)

That there is joy to be found in what my mother called “putzing around the house.”

That I love seeing Jimmy Fallon’s kids almost as much as I love Stephen Colbert’s monologues. Some nights, it’s hard to choose.

That, much as I enjoy cooking, I miss restaurants. A lot.

That phone calls are way better than texts. I had forgotten about phone calls, but now I need real voices instead of just words on a screen.

That it’s fun to try something new that you wouldn’t have done otherwise. Like, starting my garden from seeds indoors. So far I haven’t killed anything and it’s possible I may have to open a roadside stand to sell cucumber plants. (Incidentally, you don’t have to use all the seeds in the packet.)

That streaming the services from the National Cathedral is getting me through this. Along with Netflix, Hulu, and PBS.

That I should not read Covid-19 articles from The Atlantic before bedtime, no matter how accurate and well-written.

That Leg-Up Farm market is a hidden gem with wonderful, often local, produce and lovely breads, (and the peanut butter you grind yourself…oh my.) Shopping there benefits a great cause, and they actually sent an email to let customers know they had hand sanitizer in stock.

That I will be glad when I no longer need an altar stocked with wipes, sanitizer and masks at the entry to my home.

That Monday nights without going to Hershey to sing with the Susquehanna Chorale are just wrong.

That thinking too far ahead can make you crazy.

That watching what’s happening in New York breaks my heart especially after a Manhattan doctor and hospital forever changed my life.

That I really miss Ocean Pines and worry about all of the people whose livelihood depends on summer crowds filling the beaches and boardwalks.

That I’m having trouble focusing on longer writing pieces and then feel guilty because I have all this time on my hands to write and it’s mostly not working. Same with practicing music.

That I’m grateful if this had to happen, the world is at least green outside instead of locked in the cold grip of winter.

That I worry about and pray for close friends and all those in the medical field (including veterinarians) as well as those fighting serious illness who are especially vulnerable.

That I absolutely hate my gray hair. I’m starting to look like Darlene from Ozark.

That some of my lifelong rules have served me well as in my tendency to overstock paper towels and Kleenex and to never wear pajamas during the day. Get up, get dressed, make the bed, and turn off the TV after the morning news shows or skip it altogether.

That a walk, even up and down the street, can keep the heebie-jeebies from closing in.

That wine.com ships to Pennsylvania.

That my husband and I are lucky and blessed to be where we are with all that we need and that after this, I will never again take that for granted.

 

 

 

 

As we make our way through these bizarre days of virus quarantine, I think about what my grandfather experienced during the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. He was in his last year of medical residency at what was known then as Graduate Hospital, a now defunct teaching institution affiliated with the University of Pennsylvania Medical School in Philadelphia. That September, a Navy ship from Boston docked in the harbor and within days, 600 sailors were diagnosed, and the disease spread rapidly among the civilian population. With a significant percentage of doctors and nurses serving overseas in the Great War, massive responsibility fell to the student doctors and nurses, who, along with civilians, were left to care for the ill, often going directly into their homes. Philadelphia became the American city with the highest and most rapidly accumulating death toll in what was then the worst pandemic in recorded history.

I never knew the strikingly handsome, and I suspect, brilliant young intern who bravely ministered to Philadelphia’s Spanish Flu sufferers in 1918 as a not-yet-fully-licensed physician. I only knew the gentle and kindly man who cared for me during my typical childhood illnesses, dispensing various colored stomach potions and cough syrups from his black leather bag. I never knew my grandfather before a stroke caused him to limp, and as a sick child, the most soothing sound in the world was his sliding foot and thumping cane coming back the linoleum-floored hallway to my bedroom. My parents told me he saved my life when I contracted a particularly vicious form of  measles when I was very young, insisting that I be admitted to the hospital over the protestations of others. People in my hometown still tell stories about how my grandfather treated them or a family member with skill, compassion, and frequently, a robust sense of humor.

Now, 102 years later, there are more ships docked at the harbor. This time, they’re cruise ships filled with potentially sick passengers and we call it Corona virus instead of Spanish Flu. Despite our constant access to every detail of what’s happening, despite our modernized sanitation procedures and our exponential increase of scientific knowledge, we’re still at the mercy of nature. For the majority of us alive today, this is new and unprecedented territory.

We’re just as scared and discombobulated as the citizens of Philadelphia were in September 1918, perhaps more so, because of the constant bombardment of information. I suspect, that in our easy-access-to-everything world of 2020, we’re probably less resilient and less prepared than our ancestors were for a pandemic. Most of us simply are not used to hardship of any kind, even if hardship is defined as staying out of our favorite restaurants and bars, giving up social events and remaining in the comfort of our homes, armed with Netflix and Amazon Prime.

But what gives me hope is the dedication of the health care professionals putting their lives on the line for us throughout these difficult days. Not just those who speak for the government and the news networks, but the unsung heroes–the doctors, nurses, and maintenance people who are in the trenches, swabbing the nostrils of the potentially ill and swabbing the surfaces of every item we touch. A nurse friend recently remarked that just constantly getting in and out of the haz-mat clothing is exhausting in itself. In all of those people, I see the legacy of my grandfather and those that fought this same battle in 1918. I see  the same brave willingness to place a gloved, yet comforting hand on a sick patient, and the indefatigable spirit of caring that defines who we are as humans.