Tilly died on Friday night. Mr. Magpie and I went out for an early Valentine’s Day date and noticed she was more lethargic than usual when we returned. She passed away in our arms a few hours later — a privileged moment, to be sure, but one of the more challenging experiences of my life. I am grateful that we had the time to love on her these past two weeks, and say our goodbyes, and soothe her as she left the world. But I am heartbroken, and the grief is intense. It flipped like a switch the moment she left us: a sharp ache that would not pass. I mourn her absence acutely, and I use “acutely” both as a measure of the pain and in the narrow ways in which the grief reaches me. I find myself casting after her subconsciously: shutting certain doors and clearing plates because they were here favorite sites of mischief; waiting to hear her officious tick-tack-tick-tack paws and low grumble as the delivery man approaches; glancing into the front living room to see if she’s there in her favorite blue armchair perch. The minute I realize what I’m doing, I have to stop and wait for the wave of heartbreak to crest and crash. I climb the stairs and am paralyzed by a throb of sadness: I had just anticipated her face at the top. Or I wake in the morning and strain for her collar jangle; she was always a light sleeper, rousing as soon as we did. Mr. Magpie cleared out her toys while I took the children to Sunday Mass — I found it harder to have them around — and he told me later that he accidentally squeaked one, and “just about lost it.” If you have gone eight years being scarcely able to open a bag of chips within a mile of the house without curious paws clipping across the hardwood floor, these silences are crushing.
All day long, I feel like I’ve forgotten something. And I know what those things are: the walks in the morning, the opening of doors for her, the refilling of her water bowl, the casual “hi Tilly-too-toos” and head scratches as we’d cross paths. I had not fully appreciated how integrated pets are into our daily lives, how they become the metronome of normalcy. Whether I was sick, deep in newborn haze, grieving other losses, there were still the walks and the feeds to tend to, and those drumbeats often made life feel real while I was navigating spacewalks and surrealisms of various kinds. There was also the comfort of her constant companionship. Tilly has always been close-at-heel since I have worked from home 90% of the past eight years. I have been with her most of my waking hours — most of my sleeping hours, too — for much of the last decade. I sit here in my studio and look at the blank space on the carpet next to me: where she used to lay, and occasionally groan in relaxation, as I wrote. The house echoes with her absence.
Oh, Magpies. These are tender times.
I’m sharing the details, even the ugly ones, because I think it is important to look at death, and to feel less alone in our grief. I know many of you have endured a pet loss, and have written to say the most beautiful, empathetic, understanding things. Thank you for helping me through this time.
I also wanted to share a few notabilia I have found palliative in the past few days:
First, looking at her pictures, and I have thousands. I had thought I’d find this more lachrymose than leavening, but it has helped ease the agony. This is mainly because I took not only pictures of her in cute poses, but pictures of her in the midst of mischief — and she got up to a lot of it. There are hundreds of photos of her doing things that routinely pissed us off: refusing to drop my mitten and instead marching around Central Park in it with her mouth; swiping food off the counters; shredding towels and other toys; getting into these braying, back-talking bark sessions that I can only describe as unfiltered terrier sass (I can look at a picture and tell you if she was making that particular category of bark). I find myself smirking, or even laughing. She was such a character. If you are a pet owner, take heed: the pictures of your animals getting up to no good will one day be a ray of sunshine.
Above: two of my favorite photos of Tilly; below: the aforementioned mitten incident
Second, not pulling back from the moments of intense grief. It is human to want to avoid, or attenuate, pain, but each time I find myself recoiling from the moment by swallowing hard, or frantically looking for a distraction, I instead stop and let myself feel it all. It comes like a wave, and washes over me, and sometimes I cry, and sometimes I let out a deep sigh, and sometimes I just stand totally still. Then I take a breath and keep moving. I remind myself: grief is a permutation of love; it is nothing to be scared of. I owe Tilly this time of grief. I owe it to myself, too. I’d rather let it out now than have it come out sideways in other areas of my life.
Third, talking openly to Mr. Magpie and the children about Tilly — not being afraid to bring her up, even if it sometimes leads us to cry together. I want her to be remembered. I don’t want my children to think they must hide their sadnesses, or memories, or questions, somewhere else. Mr. Magpie will sometimes look over at me, and make a little frown, and squeeze my arm, and it’s his way of saying “I’m thinking of Tilly,” and we’ll have a moment remembering her together. We have been talking a lot with the children about what Tilly might be doing in heaven, and the specific ways in which we miss her. Emory has been drawing lots of pictures of Tilly and saying things like: “This would be more fun if Tilly was here,” and “The house is so quiet without Tilly,” and we always roundly agree and talk about what she might be doing if she were around. Hill has been asking whether Tilly can come back from heaven to visit us when she’s better, and other theologically-complex queries. These conversations can be brutal on the heart, but I always feel relieved, and a little better, afterward. It felt good, for example, to explain that God needed her in heaven, and was keeping her there. We’d see her in the afterlife.
Above: Emory’s handiwork
Fourth, leaning on other people who have been through this. Many friends and neighbors wrote notes, and dropped off gifts, and my niece drew a picture of Tilly in heaven. Our angel next door neighbors asked whether they could plant a small tree or bush in our cul de sac in her memory in a few weeks’ time. And so many Magpies wrote me the loveliest messages when I shared the sad news on Instagram over the weekend. One of them has lodged itself in my heart: “when you get to heaven, all the dogs you ever loved come running to greet you.” I cling to this promise.
Fifth, being practical about belongings. Some of you may feel differently, but I found it more maudlin to keep her toys and bowls out. We cleaned and put most of them away for a future dog, and also separated some of them out to donate to a local shelter along with unopened bags of dog food. I kept her name tag and plan to frame it on my desk, though, and I let each of the children pick a photo of Tilly to send off to the printer so I can frame them in their rooms. They picked the two below, and I thought it was sweet they wanted themselves in the photos, too:
Finally, though, and this is a big one: continue to seek joy. Feel the painful bits, yes, but keep moving. Mr. Magpie and I made a point of taking the kids out to dinner and toasting Tilly the night after she passed, and playing our usual morning board games, and celebrating the Super Bowl, and sending one another memes, and looking for any number of small ways to buoy ourselves during this time. One such: the morning after Tilly passed, Mr. Magpie’s amaryllis bloomed. We all celebrated it at the breakfast table. Life finds a way, you know?
Post-Scripts.
+In case you missed it, Tilly was diagnosed with cancer two weeks ago.
+Another beautiful thought on navigating grief: “Life rearranges itself to compensate for our losses.”
+Life also takes root around the perimeter.
+A few thoughts I had on commemorating Tilly, beyond the generous neighbor gift of a plant in the cul de sac and the framed tag and photos: we selected a tree in our backyard with the children and called it “The Tilly Tree.” I am also very close to ordering one of these “pup tokens” — they carry most breeds and then you have your dog’s name engraved on the other side. A generous and talented Magpie, Paris of With Love by Bug is drawing a portrait of Tilly, too. And I found these pennants that I thought would be cute for my son’s room.
+Many of you recommended Dog Heaven by Cynthia Rylant for my children. We read it together at the breakfast table this morning and they loved it, especially “finding Tilly” on each page. The book proposes that Tilly is happy where she is now, with endless treats and enormous fields to run in, and that “she’s where she’s meant to be, with God who created her.” There is also a section in which the dogs come down, invisibly, to visit with their former owners, and I could see the wheels in mini’s head turning. “Hi, Tilly!” she said, waving out the window.