All Kinds of Weather.
“It gets better.” I’ve heard this phrase more than any other since Petey Sellers passed. I always appreciated whoever said it, and even though the words didn’t resonate, I held onto them like bright, golden threads of hope. “One day those words will land,” I thought.
Therapists talk about grief in phases. Some of them even conducted a small study specifically centered on pet loss. They found that one-fourth of people surveyed were in intense grief for three months to a year; fifty percent grieved for one year to nineteen months; and the remaining stayed in it from two to six years. I knew the therapists weren’t saying that grief has a timeline. It doesn’t. But in the beginning, those numbers were helpful, a framework for feeling less alone. As the calendar turned from one year to the next, I thought about those numbers, again. Because 2023 was the first full calendar year that didn’t have a Petey Sellers in it.
At first, I was shocked. I made it through an entire year without his body next to mine. There were no times in 2023 when Petey was alive, or where I’d have a photo of him. I’d put one foot in front of the other for twelve consecutive months. How the heck had I done that?!?
The first Sunday in January, I took down my toy-themed holiday tree and decorations. I was talking to a good friend on the phone while doing it. “It looks empty now,” I said. “There’s less joy around.” We talked, and I packed, and soon, he had a new idea. "Why don’t you put up some of Petey’s toys, too?” I’d told him how cute they looked in the mid-century magazine holder, the kind with black and white barkcloth hanging between two teak handles. It was made for holding magazines, or maybe yarn, but in the twelve years I had it, it was a toy basket. “You want me to put away all of them?” I said, panicking. “Even Horsey? And Crazy Eyes?”
2023’s Holiday Tree, featuring Pee Wee & friends! Petey and Crazy Eyes Bliss.
There were Petey’s toys, and then there were Petey’s puppets: Horsey and Crazy Eyes. Each had a distinct voice: Horsey’s was Southern, inspired by Mr. Ed, and Crazy Eyes was French meets unhinged. I don’t know who liked them more, me or Petey, but he LOVED them. As soon as they showed up and talked to him, he ran around, grinning, until I let him grab one off my hand. Then he raced around the room, tossing it in the air, grabbing it, and doing it again. Once, when he was on prednisone, he stopped playing. Within a month, though, his love of the puppets was back, stronger than ever, until he was gone. After Petey died, the puppets talked to me, sometimes. But they hadn’t made a peep in months. They were just sitting there, leaning on a tropical pillow next to Petey’s sloth.
I looked at them. “Okay!” I said to my friend. “I’ll do it.” I gathered the toys from the magazine holder, added the puppets, put them in Petey’s bag in the hall closet, and shut the door. We talked for a while longer. After I hung up, I looked around the room. It didn’t look clean, it looked empty. Like Petey, those puppets were my friends. And now they were gone, too.
As a writer, I’ve spent my entire life creating characters while also surrounding myself with them. My office is filled with toys; my walls are adorned with animal paintings; and I love seeing a panda out of the corner of my eye when I’m doing yoga. But this was more than that. These were Petey’s toys. They belonged to him! They had his energy. I didn’t need them anymore, but I wanted them. It’s just like what Horsey always said to Petey: “Hi! Do you want to be friends?” Yes, Horsey. In the cold, dark, rainy winter days, I do.
In mid-January, on a Friday afternoon, we got hit with an Arctic Blast. Portland recorded the lowest temperatures since 1950; people lost power; pipes burst and people lost water; trees crashed down on houses and everywhere else, and the city, first coated in snow, was then coated in ice. On Tuesday afternoon, another ice storm was predicted. Temperatures were still below freezing, and we were all bracing for another round. Right before the storm arrived, a phrase popped into my head. I ran to my journal, drew it in bubble letters, took a picture, and texted it to friends and neighbors. “Hi!” I wrote. “I hope you’re safe and warm. Let’s sing and dance this mantra!” The phrase was: Keep the Power On and the Trees Strong. And the effect was joyous. Petey.
I posted on social media, too, and responses came flooding in. That text did more than give us something to do while the ice pelted down, it connected us. Just like Petey’s other spirit-guided lovebombs, people were delighted to receive it, and we got a chance to check in with each other. When the storm started, I turned up the music and danced, repeating the phrase over and over like an offering. I continued this throughout the night, imagining my friends and neighbors dancing, too.
When I woke up, I still had power. It was also Wednesday, Petey’s Flyaway Day. I tuned into dance class and danced to a lot of older songs, ones the teacher played while Petey was still alive. Outside, ice weighted down trees; a crow landed on an ice-coated power line and squawked; the temperature was way below freezing like it had been all week. But in my living room with the lights on and my heart soaring, I danced. He was there. He’d been there the whole time. In some ways, our relationship was always outside of space and time. That’s what made it so special.
Petey often saw things I couldn’t see. He had one paw here, but one paw somewhere else, just like I did. I loved how we could be grounded, together, but also fly. If anyone appreciated my creativity and imagination, it was Petey. The sillier I was, the bigger he smiled. I miss my fun, furry, silly friend every day. We lose things, find them, lose them, and find them, again. People, animals, and parts of ourselves that grief buries can come rushing back at any moment, even in the dead of winter. I’m finding delight in writing, but this month, it’s been about drawing, too.
I’ve been doing
’s 30-Day Drawing Habit along with thousands of other people. Shout out to Draw Together Grown-Ups Table and ! Thanks to the challenge, I’ve spent a lot of evenings on the couch drawing like I used to with Petey. It’s part art lesson, part art history, and all joy. When I draw, I smile; giggle when I color; and delight at whatever appears on the page. From dots to delights, contours to comics, drawing is healing. It’s fun! And it’s an open door.
Last Wednesday, 1/24/24, was seventeen months since Petey flew. I thought about that number again: nineteen. Maybe I wasn’t in the first group like I thought, maybe I was in the second group with the other fifty percent. That day, Petey sent me a song, a flicker of his image in meditation, and hummingbirds. Suddenly, those words landed more than they ever had, before. Grief gets better, that’s what everyone meant. Loss gets easier. The relationship shifts and morphs outside of space and time, but stays forever.
Horsey and Crazy Eyes stared at me as I wrote this. Maybe I’ll let them talk, every once and a while. Or maybe they’ll retire to my office with the rest of the toys. Those puppets will always be around, a piece of Petey and a piece of me, imagination mixed with the joy of being alive. A reminder of what it’s like to play and choose delight in all kinds of weather. Write a poem. Draw a doodle! Dance. Whatever it takes, keep the power on and the trees strong, friends! Thanks, Petey Sellers, for that.
Meet Crazy Eyes! First intro in 2016. Her voice isn’t as crazy as it would become, but it was love at first bite. “Glad to be your friend, Petey Sellers.” xoxo
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