Follow Your Nose
When I was little, I stuck a tiny red plastic hammer up my nose. I was only three years old, so while I’ve heard the story countless times, all I remember was looking at the hammer, the one that came with the tiny tool set, and thinking: would this fit up my nose? I obviously wasn’t thinking about the fact that we were packed and ready to leave for a camping trip to Tyler State National Park or that it might get stuck, I was just curious. But hey! The hammer fit! And we still went camping, just two hours, one set of giant tweezers, and one slightly annoyed family, later.
Petey Sellers had the best nose. Dogs have an incredible sense of smell by design, thanks to their 300 million olfactory receptors. Humans only have six million, which explains why dogs don’t just lead with their noses, they live by them. From a young age, Petey had separation anxiety (no surprise, there) and the recommended treatment was to leave one of my well-worn t-shirts behind. I might have been swimming at the gym, but my scent was still at home, hanging out on the couch. How many molecules did it take to calm an anxious dog? I never found out, but leaving Petey with jazz radio and one of my t-shirts became a habit that made me feel better, too. If my shirt was still there, was I ever really gone?
Separation anxiety experts (i.e. the internet,) said not to make every homecoming like a party, but they’d never met Petey Sellers. Whether I was gone for an hour or half a day, Petey greeted me with tail wags, butt shakes, and a huge smile. He was adorable! He was also a little nose-forward. The way he sniffed me reminded me of that Sex and the City episode where Aidan peppers Carrie with questions the moment she walks in the door: “Hey! What’s up! Where you been? Who’d you see?” Within moments, Petey knew every detail of the past few hours in a way I’d probably never understand. And unless I had something unsavory stuck to my shoe, I didn’t really need to know, did I?
Before I had a dog, the only kind of walking I knew was power walking (thanks, 1980s!) I saw my mom meet her best friend, who lived down the street, and away they’d go, dressed in bright colors and walking fast, arms held high and swinging like little planes, trying to take off. When Petey was younger, we did the same thing. He sniffed until we reached the end of the block, then I’d say “Fitness Walk!” and he’d trot beside me, prancing toward the main event: the park. Once there, he was free to roam and sniff to his heart’s delight. “What’s up? Where you been? Who’d you see?” he seemed to be saying as he gathered info and left messages of his own. These were his streets, his neighborhood, and he loved being in daily communion with them. Petey savored every bird sighting, every neighbor hello, every drop of sunshine on a leaf. He smelled the roses, even if they weren’t blooming, yet.
Not long after Petey flew, a good friend gifted me a phrase that struck me: follow your nose. I grabbed a pen and drew it in my journal immediately, complete with a dog nose. She was trying to help me navigate grief; at the time, I wasn’t sure if I was doing it right, as if you can do grief (or life!) correctly. I wasn’t worried about being perfect, though, I was concerned I’d never get through it. That, somehow, if I didn’t lean in enough, or if I leaned in too much, I’d either skip steps or stay in it for too long. As it turns out, grief is incredibly individual. It doesn’t care what you want, and it doesn’t care about a linear timeline or doing it right. The phases of grief seemed to be all the phases of grief. My friend reminded me that, in such gentle times, all I had to do was move from the heart, be present to the unfolding, and go with my instincts. There was no right way to grieve, but there was no wrong way to grieve, either. It was just a process, one that required time, a brave heart, and a very good nose.
After three months, I felt better, and then I didn’t. Following my nose meant following it into the belly of grief, the kind only a solo holiday can bring. On Wednesday, the snow came, blanketing the city; but it was quickly followed by rain, ice, and freezing temperatures that canceled flights and turned my part of Portland into a skating rink. On Christmas Eve, I decorated, played music, and celebrated Petey, who was four months a spirit. It was a day filled with connection and magic, and I was grateful. But when Christmas arrived, I met a desolation I hadn’t known since Petey died. I was used to doing things alone, but in reality, I’d never really been alone: I always had Petey. Maybe it was the ice storm or the fact that it was a first, but nothing, not family Zooms or texting with friends, even ones who were also grieving, eased my broken heart. Maybe we’re meant to grieve alone; the process is personal and takes a lot of time and presence. I found some solace and permission in the only book I could read – Wintering by Katherine May – because I was wintering, too. On those cold, dark nights, I showed up for my pain, and it was there I met the truth: Petey Sellers, the dog, wasn’t ever coming back.
When the ice melted, I filled up on family and friends, a belated Christmas, hugs, and plenty of nature to soothe my soul. I wandered aimlessly, inside and out, still mired in grief. As New Year’s Eve approached, I wondered if I should spend it alone or with friends; but that morning, I was suddenly clear: I wanted to spend the last night of the year with Petey. I knew this was the last holiday that would be like this. It was sacred. And I wanted to spend it in conversation with Petey. As always, he showed up when I needed him; I lit candles, played music, poured kombucha in a fancy glass, and felt Petey beside me, on the couch. I took out blank pages of paper and filled them with a review of the past year. When I stopped writing, I looked at what I’d written and smiled. The entire year had been about Petey. Every intention I had, every action I took, every struggle, adventure, and joy had Petey at the heart of it, which made my heart sing. I toasted with a good friend on video, who was also writing and reviewing that night, and we raised our glasses to each other, but also to Petey Sellers. It was the perfect night, the last night of the last year that had had him in it.
The next morning, during my two-hour online yoga class, I breathed deeply and visited some poses I hadn’t done in a while; I knew I’d feel it the next day, but I was there for it. And then, in a long savasana, I sensed a dark cloud around my heart… and felt it lift. I could almost see it float away and then dissipate in the air. I could finally breathe, again. That day, I took a long dog walk with a friend as we discussed our hopes and dreams for the new year; I made a delicious, healthy brunch, just for me; and I began to clear piles of paper from my writing spot at the dining table, piles that hadn’t moved since Petey died. After three weeks of intense grieving, I started the new year with a little sunshine. My heart cracked open, but this time, it was open to life, even if I didn’t know what that meant, yet.
I followed my nose to the beach.
It was an impromptu girl’s trip and writing retreat with my good friend and long-time writing partner, who was also a very good friend of Petey’s. We’d been doing Jami Attenberg’s #1000wordsofsummer since they started, and that week, she was doing a smaller version, the #mini1000. Suddenly, I wanted to write at the sea. Plus, Petey had been asking me to go for months. “Mom! I sent you a friend,” Petey said, and things came together. I was giddy about a few days away and a bunch of firsts, things I literally hadn’t done since February 2020: first friend road trip, first overnight with another person (the hospital doesn’t count), first non-solo writing retreat and, if we were lucky, first meal inside a restaurant.
I was going back to the last book I’d worked on, the one that had Petey Sellers in it. Since he died, I’d written an epic grief poem, posts, and several other novel revisions, but I hadn’t touched the new book since the last #1000wordsofsummer in August. Then, Petey was still alive, sitting at my feet, inspiring me. But I knew this funny little book, the one that felt like play, would write me to life, again. I showed up on that Saturday, the first day of #mini1000, and wrote 3,000 words. It was a joy I hadn’t felt in so long. The words came flooding back like I’d never left, proof that books write themselves in fallow times, too. A few days later, we took the #mini1000 to the coast.
The first walk to the beach was so rainy and windy, I was glad I hadn’t taken Petey’s ashes. Nothing ruins a ceremony more than 40 MPH winds, plus, when I’d tried to open the box in a rush that morning, it wouldn’t open. I took it as a sign that I wasn’t ready yet, which I wasn’t, but it was no big deal. I always knew what to do once I got to the sea. I grabbed a stick, drew a heart in the sand, and put Petey’s initials inside of it. The next day, the tides were so high I couldn’t even walk on the beach, so I walked on the road beside it, pausing at the last place I’d been with Petey. I set his leash on the grass and looked out at Haystack Rock, just like he had; and then I walked in the rain, tears mixing with the water around me. Once the tides receded, I ran down and drew him in the sand, like a mandala; I loved the idea that he was there, but would be gone soon, washed away. There was comfort in the impermanence. In between our walks, there were meditation and writing sessions, craft talks and shared meals, silly movies, and laughter; I felt like I hadn’t smiled in years. On our last walk, it was okay going out, but on the way back, the rain pelted our hoods and stung our cheeks. My friend started walking back, but I stayed behind; this was my last chance to honor him in this place, to honor our lives together. I picked up a stick and drew Petey, but then I drew myself beside him, the two of us connected with lines. Underneath I wrote “PS + KL Forever” and then threw the stick – and my grief – into the sea. As the waves crept up, I sobbed and ran back to my friend; I threw my arm around her and we hugged as we left the beach.
On the way out of town, I did the ritual I always did with Petey: we stopped for one last look at the sea. As we walked along the path, the sun came out for the first time, just for a moment. Petey. I made the trip, it was glorious, and he’d peeked out to say hello. Petey Sellers, who was now more solidly a part of my heart. There, with my friend by my side, I truly came back to life – and I felt him there, waving at us.
Petey Sellers and I lived life by following our noses. It’s how I’ve always lived, but it was more fun with this guy at my side. Sometimes it worked out well, and other times it didn’t, but it was never boring. Continuez tout droit! In French, “follow your nose” translates to “go straight ahead,” which I love. On that first day of the new year, I remember talking with Petey. “I’m nervous,” I said. “I don’t know what’s next.” I heard his voice immediately. “But you do know,” Petey said. And then he repeated back to me, verbatim, the messages I’d been receiving all month, ones I’d written in my journal. I had clarity about this new year, and not just that I would be okay, but that I would shine.
“Just follow your nose, Mom,” Petey said, reminding me. It’s great advice for moving through grief – moving through anything, really – and walking toward what’s next. Follow your whims. Listen to your heart. Pay attention to your inklings, your desires, those little glimmers of light. And then, like any good dog, follow them. You might be surprised at what shows up. “It’s a treat!” Petey whispered in my ear as I was writing this. “It’s totally a treat!”
I smiled. Whatever it is, I can promise you this: it’s not going anywhere near my nose.
Art & Read:
Follow Your Nose! I’m taking a break from the award this month and, instead, sharing a silly song. It’s the original Petey Sellers is the Very Best Dog song. Is it recorded well with the best lyrics? No! Does it have a lyric about Taylor Swift? Yes! It’s also super 2020. Enjoy!
Craft Talk: I just did Jami Attenberg’s #1000wordsofsummer #mini1000 while at the beach, and it brought me back to my new novel. I didn’t know how much I needed that community, but I did. Sign up for her Craft Talk, it’s generous, wonderful, and literally a writer’s best friend.
Love & Donate:
This month, I’m donating all subscriber proceeds to The Sato Dog Project. These adorable dogs need our help, and their stories and spirit remind me so much of Petey! Here’s how they describe a Sato: “Many have the instantly recognizable ‘sato’ ears; large ears that stick up and if these amazing little dogs ever get their own Disney movie then we are sure they would be able to fly.” Sound familiar? Let’s help!
As always, thanks for reading, subscribing and sharing. I heart you! I’m happy you’re here! And adore hearing from you on social or in the comments. Here’s to a new year, one bathed in more light.
xoxo, Kari
