Yesterday (Friday), I wrote this note to women I work with on fascinating, captivating projects.

“I have to admit . . . I’m paying little attention to (our work) today and while I will hope to have my fragile heart put back under discipline by Monday’s meeting, it may not be, and I may not be there. We will see what grief does.
The reason — tomorrow morning our stubborn and dearly loved dog, Skoshi, will be euthanized. Blindness we can help with, deafness, too, but of late (and I have three bites as evidence) his brain has announced the need of unexpected aggression, and fearing one’s pet is not manageable. Something has gone terribly wrong.
But, isn’t it the case? He feels our emotions today. He is sticking close. He is being loving and mostly kind. He is making all this all the harder, of course.
There, having let my fingers do what my voice can’t, I wanted you to know. B”

Today (Saturday) 5:15a.m. My intention is to post I-don’t-know-how-many-blogs to record my observations of the power of grief. The “I don’t know” is perhaps the first warning grief brings me. Today I don’t know how to recognize normal.

Grief rides in on unwanted information. It doesn’t matter how many grievings I have experienced before, it always arrives as fresh and as readily identifiable as the first bite of a ripe peach off the tree on a hot summer’s day, dripping with distinctive flavor. I can’t miss its uniqueness. But, being me, I don’t bury it. I acknowledge it and fight its power. “Not yet, Grief; not yet can you own me.”

Yesterday, I felt and observed grief’s arrival when we Pines stopped manufacturing unrealistic ways to keep our 15-year-old miniature poodle alive. Granted, Skoshi is mostly blind, can’t hear much at all, wanders with a somewhat confused brain; but he’s got such physical energy, he’s still mostly happy and fun. Only, now his betraying brain chooses violent reactions in surprising and unexpected moments.

Grief entered our house yesterday when we ran out of choices, and when we did, we did what we do here when Grief arrives—we cleaned things. Counter tops, wooden floors, stacks of books put away, balance a checkbook (some of us still do), lose our appetites, turn on the TV, avoid people because of ready tears, and I wrote the note above. Then, I wrote this note to our children:

Well, here are your parents, wandering a bit today, snuggling with Skoshi, taking him on his favorite wetland walk, walking around the building in his favorite manner, and knowing that he knows, because today he is being very close and very kind (unlike his vicious outbreaks of late). Tomorrow morning at 10:45, if the appointment goes as scheduled, he will be euthanized, and we will be a crying mess. BUT, we are using two words—Grateful and Release. Hard moment at our house. As is predictable, your father openly weeps and your mother holds both the dog and the gut ache close. Xoxoxo 

That “tomorrow morning” has arrived. The hour has not. I write now from the sofa with sweet Skoshi tucked under a shared blanket, sleeping and spooning against my knees. This is our every morning habit: my books and coffee, his sleep and spooning. Oh, and today, we are joined by the ubiquitous presence of Grief, the taste of it behind my eyes, in my throat, in my gut, in my need for quiet. Were I to label the first sign of grief, at least today, I will call it: Awareness. Painful, precious, awareness.