After the last of our three dogs died in March 2020, I felt their absence in my body. We had adopted them when our twins were in middle school. For 14 years, we were a family of seven. Now, everyone in New York had to shelter at home, and my husband and I found ourselves shut in, our grief ghosting throughout the house.
Our sons, who are now in their 20s, left their apartments in the city to stay with us in our wooded suburb. They helped mitigate my sorrow. Now and again, I talked about adopting a new dog––I didn’t want to be without one––but my husband likened the idea to getting married within a few months after losing a spouse. It was an act of betrayal.
I told myself to wait, be patient. I told myself that with so much suffering in the news, some of it raging, we had what we needed. I cooked and cleaned for my family. I worked, correcting proofs for a book that was to be published, and, to tap into joy, I danced on Zoom.
via Whisker Therapy