ktb-513

[ktb-513]

I sat by the kitchen window this morning looking out into the empty yard. A leaf fell to the ground, and the way the sun is shining through the trees but is not yet overhead tells me that Fall is here. You would have loved it.

When we would go on our morning walks in the summer, you were happy but sometimes you would drag your feet. But on the mornings when the crispness of fall was in the air, you bounced as if you were 5 years old again.

We could both walk farther than we could on hot days, and we enjoyed our walks more in the cool mornings of fall.

Maybe you liked the cold weather because it felt good on your skin, or because the temperature made the air less heavy and easier to breathe.

Maybe you liked it because I did, and when I felt happier, so did you.

Maybe you liked it because you knew we’d be outside more, and cooler weather meant more disc golf in the afternoons and cozy nights with you in the evenings.

Whatever the reason, we both loved it. We went from avoiding the sun all day in the summer, and strategically walking during the coolest parts of the day, to laying in the sun and breathing in the 70 degree air. The cool was respite for us both following a long hot summer.

So today, instead of reaching down to rub your head or lay on the ground with you, I’ll close my eyes, take a deep breath of the fall air and try to feel you. I’ll try to feel you in the crispness of the air and pretend we’re going on a walk like always. I’ll pretend walking doesn’t feel stupid and pointless without your leash in my hand.

I’ll look at the sun streaming through the trees and try to find your golden brown eyes somewhere in the beams of light.

Instead of enjoying the morning with you by my side, I’ll keep you alive in my mind by basking in it the way we did together.

I’ll feel the breeze and pretend it’s you sending me signs that you’re with me. I’ll see a leaf fall that is the color of your fur and pretend it’s a message from you that it’s okay for me to enjoy this season without you.

And I’ll hear a leaf rustle and let myself believe for a second that it’s your sneeze.

I’ll sit in the smells, sounds and sights and pretend I’m not angry that I wanted more fall mornings with you than what I got.

I’ll take a deep breath in, take a deep breath out, and keep trying to put one foot in front of the other without you. I’ll pretend it’s not the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

[ktb-513]

I packed up my car today like I always do for these long road trips. The packing is lighter, but makes my heart feel heavier. .

I cleaned out the back of my car instead of loading up your dog hammock. I vacuumed up your hair in the floorboard instead of packing a bag of your dog food. I wiped off the seats but I left your nose smudges on the window because I can’t bring myself to get rid of the marks you left behind.

This car ride is going to be too quiet. When I stop for gas, It’ll just be for gas. I’ll open one door instead of two and that makes me want to die.

These long trips were bearable because of my backseat companion. When I didnt want to drive anymore for myself, I kept going for you because I knew you couldn’t stand one more minute in the car.

It makes me think about when I made the trip in a panic during the pandemic, only stopping twice. We made record time, and still I stopped to let you run in a field on the side of the interstate.

All of the snacks I got for me, were to pass back a piece to you too.

The ride feels empty and lonely. I slam on the brakes in a traffic jam and I know my luggage is the only thing that will slide forward instead of you.

I pulled up to my parents driveway and I broke. I broke in half and couldn’t catch my breath because for the first time in 6 years, it was just me they were welcoming home. My dad doesn’t open the backseat to let you out, instead my mom opens the driver door to hold me in her arms and let me cry.

Your ashes are in my passenger seat instead of you and it kills me.

I feel like air has been stolen from my lungs. I feel like a piece of me died with you.

I feel like I’ll never feel whole again without you.

I feel like the rest of my life will be doing things without you for the first time.

I have to remember you longer than I knew you.

I used to say I was afraid of death, and I hoped I went to heaven despite my lack of faith.

I don’t say that anymore.

I don’t hope I’ve done enough good to get into heaven, I hope I’ve done enough good to go wherever you are.

At the end of my life, I hope I have you and Jake in my arms for eternity. I hope our family is reunited and made whole again.

[ktb-513]

Copper

As soon as I graduated college (and even before), all I wanted to be was a dog mom. When I first moved to Charlotte I signed up to be a Rover dog sitter just to be around dogs, because I knew the time wasn’t right for me to get one of my own. All of my friends had dogs they could take to dog bars, breweries and parks, and I so desperately wanted to be able to do the same thing with a one of my own.

A few months after moving to Charlotte, I signed up to be a foster/adopter through a local Boxer rescue. At the time I didn’t understand why, but it didn’t work out, and I was never matched with anyone.

Almost a year later, in May of 2018, I settled into my new apartment in Huntersville and my life felt more stable than it had since moving to Charlotte. I felt ready.

I found Petfinder.com, a website that lists dogs and cats from different rescues and shelters that were available for adoption. I applied for probably 10 different dogs, none of which worked out for seemingly no reason that I could find.

One day, I was browsing through the site like normal, when I came across a skinny, beautifully colored boxer. I put in an application, met him in person, and took him home 6 days later.

I wish I could say our bond was immediate, but it wasn’t. In all honesty, Copper liked Jake more than me and most days in that first month I thought he hated me. He was reserved and wanted his space, and was not as affectionate as I was to him.

Over time, of course, that all changed. He trusted me more and more each day. When I quit my full time job and was home with him doing graduate work every day, we bonded very quickly. I was able to do more with him in the day, and “more” turned into everything.

He went with me on car rides and walks to Starbucks, and inside any store that was pet friendly (even some that weren’t).

I took him to nursing homes, and an adult day center where he very politely visited with the older adults that admired his beautiful color and gentle demeanor. Copper was a conversation started for residents to reminisce about the pets they once had, and tell me how lucky I was to have him. He was always gentle, but with them, he seemed to understand the importance of being even more tender and patient.

We learned quickly that Copper wasn’t dog friendly, which nixed a lot of the plans I made for us in my head. He couldn’t go to dog parks, or hike on busy trails, or visit breweries with us. We pivoted, though. I found an elementary school playground that was mostly fenced in, and we would take him there to chase the ball and get his zoomies out. We would take him in stores because other dogs wouldn’t be there, and Jake took him disc golfing every chance he could- which was arguably his favorite activity.

Copper wasn’t interested in toys either unless there was food involved. He wasn’t the type of dog that would chew on a bone, or rip apart a plush toy. He was too human for all that stuff. So we pivoted again. I got all too familiar with enrichment activities for dogs, and mastered them. Puzzle toys, lick mats, DIY sniff mats, and anything I could create for him to keep his mind busy, and engaged.

Copper and I spent Thanksgiving of 2018 just the two of us, in Huntersville. I took him for a ride, we walked on the greenway, ran around the school playground, ate dinner and watched a movie. No offense to the humans in my life, but that was my favorite Thanksgiving of all time. It was simple, and wordless, and full of love.

I powered through grad school the rest of that year, and into 2019. In May 2019, on my last day of class an active shooter opened fire in the building next to me. The days following were quiet, as I hadn’t yet started my job and everyone else was at work. It was just me, Copper, and all of my anxious thoughts. He didn’t know it, but he carried me through the aftermath of those days. I felt like I couldn’t be alone, and thank God, I wasn’t. He never left my side, and provided a sweet quiet comfort that only a dog can.

•

When I took a full time job after graduation, Jake started taking him to work at his asphalt plant’s lab every other day. We joked that Copper was in charge of “morale” for the company. People at the plant loved him, and every day he got to walk around off-leash and follow Jake around the plant. He was the happiest boy on those days.

•

In March 2020, with the uncertainty of what Covid-19 would do to my job and to the world, I packed up everything I could fit in my car, and Copper and I went to Mississippi. Copper and I spent that summer painting my parents’ house, going to the beach, missing Jake, chasing ducks (Copper, not me), going on daily walks with my dad, fighting a crab (also just Copper), going on rides in the front seat of my dad’s truck, and virtually anything else he wanted to do. As bad as the circumstances were, he (and my parents) kept me grounded and calm. He gave me purpose when everything around me felt uncertain, and I can never thank him enough for the reassurance he gave me that summer.

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When I got back to Charlotte in August, Jake (and Copper) proposed. Copper got back into his routine of going to work with Jake on the days I had to go into the office, and he was home with me the rest of the time. We made many more road trips to Mississippi, hiked several mountains and trails that fall, and planned a wedding. There were ups and downs that year, but as with most hard times I went through, he was the positive note that I ended every day on. I felt like I’d known him and had him my whole life. I simply did not remember what life was like before him, and had no interest in remembering or ever finding out.

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Our wedding was my favorite day for many reasons. But as most things in my life, Copper is at the center of the funniest memories. During our ceremony, he paced throughout the audience, politely greeting everyone up and down the aisles. He bounced behind Jake and I as we walked away from the altar after saying “I do.” He begged for a piece of wedding cake and food from the caterer, and no doubt he scored a bite of each at some point.

He became the collective responsibility of the wedding party and attendees throughout the night. I’m sure several people took it upon themselves to take him outside, and when he wasn’t dancing with us or walking through the crowd of people, he could be found laying next to me on my wedding dress train, or unsupervised riding up and down the elevator. We’re still not sure how he managed that.

•

Shortly after our wedding, life hit me hard and fast as my health rapidly deteriorated and my autoimmune disease spun out of control. Being young and chronically ill is isolating. The world continued to move around me, and people carried on with their activities in the summer and social lives while I stayed on the couch or in bed. For me, time stopped because it had to.

My therapist told me that Copper’s death may hit me particularly hard because as someone with a chronic illness, there are fewer safe spaces for me in the world and fewer people that understand. Copper always understood, though, and he was always a safe space for me. He didn’t whine on particularly bad pain days when I couldn’t take him for long walks, or when we suddenly stopped going on hikes. He just stayed with me. When the world continued to move and I had to stop, he stopped too. He didn’t love me any less when my face swelled from the steroids, or when I couldn’t do anything without an ice pack to my ear. Jake traveled for work so often during those 2 years. And so many nights, it was just me and Copper. Multiple times on those occasions, I explained to him that he was never allowed to die, and that we would simply have to be buried on the same day, because I don’t know how I would survive nights alone without him.

•

When Jake and I started looking into buying a house, our number one criteria was a fenced in backyard for Copper. He had lived in either an apartment or townhouse his entire time with us, and while he never lacked anything, we wanted to give him that. When our house became our worst nightmare, we always found peace in the fact that “at least Copper has a backyard.” He made this wretched house feel like a home.

•

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When I found out the lump on his jaw, I don’t think the word heart break begins to describe the pain we felt. I felt like my world caved in on itself.

I always knew our time with him was finite, but I never actually willed myself to imagine the end of it. The month following his diagnosis was hard, and simultaneously felt insufferably long but entirely too short. I spent every day after his diagnosis managing his medications, managing the side effects of those medications, listening to his breathing, waking up throughout the night if he breathed funny or rustled even a little.

I struggled to find a way to keep him safe and healthy, but for the first time in his life, I couldn’t do that. There was no amount of vet visits or calls to my mom about symptoms that could stop time or reverse what was coming. We felt so helpless. Every day was suffocating.

The steroids made so many symptoms worse, and the pros did not outweigh the cons. Watching my big, strong, protective dog decline at the rate he did was the greatest heartbreak of my life- up to that point. I told him every day to let me know when he was ready, and I promised I would never let him suffer. People say that dogs often wait to die until they know it’s time. I told him to hold on until my mom came and got to say goodbye, and for me to return from a day trip to Atlanta. And he did exactly that.

Copper passed a month and half after his diagnosis.

•

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Our house doesn’t feel like a home anymore without him. His absence is unbearable, and the silence in my everyday life is deafening. I feel like he took a part of me with him when he left. I don’t yet know what that part was, or when I’ll one day need it and realize it’s gone.

I’ve been without him for 18 days, 432 hours, and 25,920 minutes.

Every day I wake up and wonder what’s going to send me into tears, and what tiny habit I’ll find myself doing just to realize I don’t need to do it anymore. It’s been 18 days since I’ve stroked the white patch of hair in between his eyes, or put hot dogs in his toy, or found any purpose in going on a walk around the neighborhood. This is the longest I have ever been without him.

•

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I rescued Copper once, but he rescued me hundreds of times. I think I always needed him more than he needed me.

I don’t know if I’ll ever love a dog the way I loved him, but maybe that’s for the best.

•

But I do know now why none of those other dogs worked out for me. He was mine before I knew who he was, and I was meant to be his mom. It was the privilege and joy of my life to take care of him and make him the center of my world.

He taught me how to be patient, and how to be angry at a situation but not him. He taught me that just showing up, and being present means more than the words you can or can’t offer to someone who is hurting or sick. He taught me that the past is an important indicator of the future, but doesn’t define it. He taught me that animals and people who are sometimes hard to love, are still worth loving. He taught me that I was capable of a love so great, it changed my life, and influenced the lives of many others. He taught me that time and persistence can heal wounds, and create space for new things.

He taught me that you can’t buy love, but you can rescue it.

[ktb-513]

In the garage of my childhood home, stood 4 foot tall, 3 tiered wooden shelves that my dad built to keep his garage organized.. On the top shelf, he kept his car washing supplies in a bucket. The bucket was filled with wash rags, soap, tire polish, squeegees, and stacks of newspaper that he used to dry the windows so as not to streak them. On the same shelf there were 2 footballs- one small enough for my tiny hands to throw, and one suitable for the boys.. That top shelf held baseballs, baseball bats, miscellaneous sports equipment, and one rack of umpiring shoes.

Everything had a place on a shelf. And every shelf seemed to have a rationale to the placement, and the frequency it was used. Things we accessed often were on the top, right at eye level. Things we only needed every few months stayed on the middle shelf, and things we may need once in a blue moon were on the garage floor (which served as the bottom shelf). The less often we needed items, the further down on the shelves they went. My dad is meticulous about everything having a place and a purpose. It was instinctual in our house to know exactly where an item would be in the garage when we needed it. My dad would often be in the middle of a project or repair, and shout, “Hey Katie, go grab me that ___ from the garage.”

I remember most of the contents of the top shelf. But i felt a lump in my throat today when i tried to recall what sat on the other shelves, and I couldn’t. Because it’s been almost 10 years since I’ve lived in that house for longer than a summer. It’s been 10 years since my dad asked me to go grab him something from the garage. It’s been 10 years since I’ve had to step up onto the wheel of his truck, climb into its bed and reach something on the top shelf for him.

Today I sat in my own garage, helping my husband hang a shelf that is 636 miles away from the shelves my dad made. I realized today that I don’t remember what was on the bottom shelf, or in the middle. I don’t remember what I would reach for on the bottom shelf that I could locate so instinctually. In the moment that I realized this, I felt tears well in my eyes.

I realized that my inability to recall the shelves contents are a symptom. It is a symptom that time continues to pass without my permission and those memories fade at the same speed. I don’t know how my dad’s garage is organized anymore, and for some reason, that is almost painful. I sat and wondered what he does now when he needs something from the garage.

Does he fetch it himself? Does he shout to my mom to get it for him? And why do I feel so sad that he figured out how to get things from the garage without me?

I don’t particularly miss that garage or living in that house. I remember slivers of life there when I roller bladed around inside there, jumping over cones and having confidence that one day, I could roller blade professionally. I remember when we briefly had a ping pong table that we’d play on with our friends, but not nearly often enough. I remember when I ran to meet my dad in the garage when he returned from work to show him I got my ears pierced, and he almost cried. That garage held mostly good memories.

But it isn’t the memories or the activities that happened in the garage that make me feel this pain. I feel this pain because I never realized that there would be a last time that I got something from those shelves, or that there would be a last time that I remembered what sat on those shelves.

Even though aging is natural and my move was for the best, the garage begs me to think of my parents’ life and of mine.

I don’t know the ins and outs, or contents of their days, and they don’t know the ins and outs of mine. Aging and growing up from a distance is just sitting with the strange twinges of pain from unexpected moments like hanging shelves in a garage.

It means that we all had to adapt and learn how to move through life without each other- and being okay with that.

Aging, and healing from a distance is learning to be okay with not knowing how my dad’s garage is organized anymore.