Light Up the Sky.
On March 19th, Petey visited me in a dream.
He’s visited me in dreams a few times, but this was different. Maybe it was because I was dogsitting, sleeping in another bed; or maybe it was because I had insomnia until three in the morning. But when my alarm went off five hours later, the bells chimed inside the dream like a distant call from a faraway land. I felt myself being sucked up in a vortex, going from one world to the other as I turned off the alarm. I ducked back under the covers as quickly as I could, as if hiding would help me retreat back into the realm where my dog was still alive; a place I could now only access in dreams.
We were at the beach, the same one we visited in every dream, the one that reminded me of our trips to Manzanita in the early days. I smelled salt water and heard the roar of the ocean as we walked a familiar path down to the shore, passing the same cafe along the way. But this time, we went inside. A woman in a gauzy purple dress waved us in and handed me a blueberry scone to share with Petey. Scones were his favorite. “Sit, enjoy,” she said and then disappeared into the back. I walked Petey past the tables, which were empty, and sat on the floor next to him, leaning against a wall. We liked to be on the same level. The woman returned with two plates filled with scrambled eggs, one for Petey and one for me. “Eggies!” she said, and then she was gone.
After we ate, Petey sat next to me and I turned to him, doing what had become our evening post-dinner routine. Leaning down, I gave him vigorous pets, a full body hug, and little raspberries under his arms, which made him smile so big, you could practically hear him giggle. Maybe he was ticklish, or maybe he was just blissed out, but I loved that smile, how he gazed at me with eyes that said “I love you, I‘m so happy we’re together, let’s be this way forever.” I buried my face in his fur and breathed in his scent, vanilla cupcakes. He always smelled like cupcakes. I gave him another hug, basking in this nightly ritual, one we developed during the pandemic. It was small but had a big effect. “You’re so silly!” I said, laughing with him, burying my face in his fur. “I love you so much!” I said as I heard the alarm.
I was aware of the sound, but still smelled him; I heard the alarm, but still felt him. We were together, truly together, even as I heard Atlas stir on the floor. After turning the alarm off I tried to go back to the dream, but never did, not fully. I hovered on the edges, hands on my heart, sobbing and laughing at the same time. I was with Petey! We had a visit! I’d missed him so much, and he showed up.
It felt like a sign.
For the first time, I knew everything was going to be okay. Atlas and I bonded and were now BFFs; I had plans to be out in the world more as my dogsitting duties ended; and it was a gift to be away from my house for a few days. I wiped my tears and smiled. Petey was trying to show me that he wasn’t just at our house, he was here, too. Wherever I go, he goes with me.
I got up, took Atlas out, and started our day. It was a Sunday, and I was incredibly sleep-deprived, but I walked, anyway, got coffee, and wrote. I felt happier and more energized than I had in a while. I saw my best friend! Just like he did in real life, Petey Sellers lifted my spirits in dream life, too.
As March turned to April, I consistently felt more alive, but also missed him more. The first spring without a Petey Sellers. Bloom and contract, both/and, just like April in Portland. Here, it can be 40 degrees and pouring one minute, 50 degrees and bright, the next. I used to think it felt chaotic, but now I’m used to it, the knowledge that you can pop out for a sunny walk and end up soaked; go for a beloved second walk and end up dodging hail; see the sun, then snow, then sun, again. In April I carry a small umbrella, just in case. In life and in grief, you never know what’s coming.
On March 24th, when Petey turned seven months a spirit, it snowed. And not the traumatic kind of snow that piles on and leaves you stuck, it was the magical kind, huge flakes that filled the sky but melted once they hit the ground.
It felt like Petey was up there, throwing confetti.
I’d just finished text-bombing all of his beloveds, as he instructed me to do that morning — “Good morning! Petey Pete is seven months a spirit today!” — and then sent the pic that popped up on my phone, one from August 2020. I looked at the photo, remembering – we were alive! I’d recovered from the worst parts of my surgery, and we were in that sweet spot before the wildfires and when Petey got sick. We were alone, but together — and his face shows that he was incredibly happy about that. Our love lights up the sky.
I’ve been playing catch-up from the last eight months, but really, it’s catch-up from the last three years. I send things out and apply for new ones; make travel plans; see old friends, have daily dog walks with new dogs, and plan work on the house, not just repairs but fun things, too, like painting rooms and printing photos of Petey to hang on the wall. Everything that’s been in a state of disrepair, including my heart, is getting a lift, or at least plans for future attention. Emerging. In the backyard, the camelia’s pink blooms and yellow forsythia put on a show, colors popping out against a gray sky. “Look,” I say, showing Petey one morning. “Isn’t it beautiful?
I’m finally planning his tree planting and garden, an endeavor that will take me through the summer, making mosaics and adding new things every month in his honor. Making a new, more permanent altar outside so we can be together in the sunshine, reading, writing, and being like we liked. Soon, it will be time to walk early again before writing, which was always a special shift, communing with birds before going to the page instead of after. Petey and I were delicate flowers, fans of getting out before the UV soared, but we also cheerred the sun as it seeped into our long wintering bodies. As I walk earlier, hike longer, and take adventures, like we did in the spring, I’ll take him with me.
When I work with my grief and am open to it, especially at this time every month, our love shows up in every word I write, every song I hear, and every interaction. “Keep going, Mom,” Petey says. “Keep going. We still have work to do.” I know what he means when he says it. Creating work that lights up the sky is how I get through. And that point where grief shifts from pain to promise is a beautiful thing. I don’t cry and talk to pandas daily, anymore. And while I’m still knocked down by grief that seems to come from nowhere, sobs so heavy they take my breath away, it never lasts long. One friend likened it to a flash flood, or the hail that visits every spring. It’s there, then it’s gone; little releases, like a comet shooting through the night sky. I think of him and am touched, or miss him, or attend an amazing event and come home to tell him about it, but he’s not there. Sometimes, it’s still a shock, so I let it hail, if I need to; and then I shake off the ice, laugh, and continue living.
The pandemic forced all of us to create new habits, and mine was creating an entire life around and for my dog. We’d always been close, but for the past three years, it was us against the world, or so it seemed. When we weren’t bonded against a virus, we were battling his cancer. Coming out of the pandemic feels weird without him, not just emerging from grief, but emerging from one world into the next. But I know it’s what he’d want for me. “Travel,” Petey says. “Go see my grandparents. Film some things, draft that next book, fix the house, and meet friends. Ride your bike, take a hike, and take me with you. But don’t get a dog.” I laugh. I’m not ready for another dog, not even close. But I also know that, after I’ve had some time for myself and the world, one will probably appear. That’s the great thing about staying open.
For now, I smile when I draw Petey Sellers; my heart blooms when he shows up in meditation. And when I see or do something he would love, I tell him about it. I get it now, the way we carry those we love with us, but it takes a while to get here. I still like being in the present, but now I love thinking about the future, that bright, boundless place full of joy and possibility, a place I get to inhabit. When I went in for a trim and accidentally got most of my hair cut off, I embraced it. The surprise haircut! “Cute! A new beginning!” I could almost hear Petey say.
Sometimes, when I’m on the couch at night, I look over and think about our evening ritual. “I love you, you’re so silly,” I say to the empty spot. But I also say it to myself. Sometimes grieving is like our April weather – bloom, contract, bloom, repeat – but still, it moves forward. And like the first sunny walk of spring, I know Petey’s a fan of that.
Loves
*Have you seen Tiny Beautiful Things on Hulu? Based on all-around lovely human Cheryl Strayed’s book of the same name, this show is a profound, funny work about grief, loss, and living. You’ll gobble it up in a weekend — and feel better for having seen it. What a gift! Sign up for her Substack, too. (P.S.: Cheryl’s also a Petey Sellers Secret Society member! *waves)
*I love this article about pet loss. For those of us who have had a special bond with a dog, we know this, but it’s good to hear why it’s so hard, and why it often takes longer to grieve than you’d think. It’s also a helpful read for the family and friends who support us. I love how she talks about proximity, brain mapping, and unconditional love.
Art
Yay, You! Whether you’re battling canine or human cancer, doing the hard work of caregiving, wading through any stage of grief, or are just a human on this planet, emerging from three challenging years, print this out, color it, and wear it like a pin! You’re doing great, really.
As always, thank you for reading, sharing, and commenting. Wherever you are, I hope you’re making your way into spring with a little rain, a little sun, and lots of joy. Here’s to all the very good dogs, wherever they are. Happy spring! xoxo, Kari
Love this, Kari! I'm glad Petey said,"Go visit my grandparents" and I hear you are going to take his sage advice!! xoxoxo Debby
This was a beautiful journey. It was a wonderful walk through the times and days and months, a trail that took us into your world with Petey. I wish I had dreams about my lost furry friends - or maybe it's better to read yours and think about my own later, in the dark, in the quiet of the night. Grief is a whole body, an entire universe of feeling. I can't avoid it and then when it passes I'm sad. Thank you for sending me your dream.