Helen and Cricket had a sibling-like relationship. They squabbled frequently, but also teamed up against external irritants like cats on the roof, mockingbirds, or their brother, Bjorn. When they played, it was noisy and kind of rough, but they enjoyed it.
One of their favorite games, which they played every night at least once or twice, was something we liked to call “asshole games” or “assholing.” A single bout looked like this:
One dog gets the attention of the other via a piercing, unwavering stare.
That dog — the “instigator” — will then go into the dark back bedroom where the dog door is.
The instigator will hide in the shadowy back room, with only just enough of their face poking out the door so that they can detect the approach of the “chaser”. Depending on where the chaser is at the time (which is usually where the pack humans are), the instigator will need to watch either the hall or the master bedroom.
The chaser will sneak toward the back room; the sneaking ends when the instigator signals that they see the chaser coming. (We never figured out what the signal was, to be honest, but it happened.)
Here, the speed and volume of the game changes: the instigator turns tail, barking, and the chaser takes off after the instigator, also barking, and both running at breakneck speed.
The two of them crash through the dog door and spend a minute or two in the back yard, barking a dialog that we truly wish we understood.
Satisfied, they come back into the house and assume what seem to be agreed-upon positions: sometimes changing sides, sometimes not.
The boys, Cricket and Bjorn, have been unsettled since we came home without Helen. There has been a lot of pacing, searching and neediness. Cricket, however, has the hardest time at night, when the asshole games should begin. He has taken himself into the back room to await the chaser, but no one comes. From my place in bed, I have watched his big, dobie-doofus shnozz cast a shadow on the back room door as he waits and watches down the hall. I see his eyes glint a reflection of the master bedroom light as he turns to check that direction. He waits, waits, waits, and then comes into the master bedroom and stands, staring down the hallway, still, head down.
I wish I could explain it to him. I wish he had been there, as morbid as that sounds to some. The one time we were able to arrange for a home send-off for a doggo, the party was amazing and the ministrations proffered by the people in attendance were warm and soothing. I don’t know how much our other two dogs at the time grieved, but they didn’t seem as… confused. Helen’s passing was sudden and not expected, so while we were able to give her a send-off with snacks (thank you, Smoo) and all hands on dog attention, Cricket and Bjorn only know that we left with her and came back without. I can’t help thinking it would help them to at least know.
Still, the obsessive need to know is a human thing, it seems. I don’t doubt that some animals grieve heavily the loss of family, but I have never heard of the animal equivalent of a human who uses the rest of their money, energy, and time looking for a family member who disappeared without explanation. This isn’t meant as a judgement for or against either animals or people; it is merely an observation. An animal would not be so free with what are, essentially, resources for survival. We, however, have somehow tied our sanity to answers, our happiness to meeting our need to know. I think that Cricket feels the pang of loss and the disorientation of not understanding what happened to his pack member. He will go on, though, and heal and absorb the loss and the memory of past family, without dwelling much, and without a manic drive to understand. There is a very dog-like zen in that, in my opinion.
Loss Thought #2 was originally published in eustonmouse on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.