When I left teaching high school (last century!) I knew I’d remember fondly the students who helped put together the yearbook, worked in the darkroom, and were always prepared for English class. And I did. But I was surprised to miss some of my toughest customers: the ones with charming excuses for not completing an assignment, or who tried to put off the drugery of classwork by getting me off topic with their questions and antics. The student who insisted on writing a gossipy “some do” report on her catholic school classmates’ opinions on premarital sex, which earned me some stern conversations with the nuns.
So I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that since our crazy muppet dog Gizmo passed, away much of what I mourn could be considered his worst qualities. I can walk into the kitchen without stepping carefully to avoid the beggar in chief, who would cheerfully be trampled a little if it resulted in a nibble of spilled cereal. I can put a pill on the table to take with breakfast, and feel confident no one will steal it while I’m getting my tea. When I hear the mail drop into the mailbox or the creak of the gate, there’s no ear-splitting bark that follows. (He may have been about the size of a large totebag, but had a voice both booming and piercing.)
It is so quiet. A husband, 2 cats, and a teen hidden away under headphones are all busy on their projects, but nobody is howling, scratching, or knocking things over. Nlobody needs to be let out, or in. Nobody’s begging for breakfast, or extra breakfast, or one more treat after extra breakfast. Nobody wants me up by 6 to get outside and check things out. The half-empty nest is quieter still.
Of course I miss the fun parts too: the walks, the enthusiasm for the smell of every leaf, the belief that every spin around our neighborhood, no matter how many times we’ve done it, will yield new thrills. Just the structure of Gizmo’s perked-up ears made him look alert and eager. He loved the cats, and sitting on the couch while I read, and laying in the sun. He loved car rides with the window down, and sometimes he was able to roll the window down himself. He could hear a grain of rice hit the kitchen floor from two rooms away, and he’d be there in a flash.
He hated squirrels, though he pretended not to see the huge hulking deer. He hated the mailcarrier, not the human, who he’d greet happily if encountered out on the sidewalk, but the dastardly repeat offender trespasser who came almost every day up to the house, with the likely intent to kill us all. That the intruder retreated from Gizmo’s fierce shrieks made it even more an affront when he returned the next day.
Gizmo knew most of our friends’ cars, and would start barking when they pulled up. It was a more joyful “get the hell in here” bark, though it kind of brings me back around to the annoying list. I guess that’s how grief works. The complaints loop into the sorrows, and then back. The great wheel of life.
It’s interesting, coming at a time when I’m transitioning into retirement. While I miss regular contact with my lovely clients, I’ve been welcoming the extra space and time, luxuriating in it and trying to leave room for whatever’s next. I was taking down the Halloween decorations and realized there was no pressure to get it all done quickly before the next thing. I could take my time, enjoy the sun on my face, and the chats with passing neighbors. I could appreciate each ghost or witch or spider as I hauled them down and packed them up. Spend as much time on it as I liked, and quit when I was ready.
But I didn’t ask for the quiet that losing the dog has brought. That one will take some time to come to peace with.
Rest in peace Gizmo, you rascal.
