Blood Sugar(42)

I also knew I had to use this loss to help my patients, guide the session toward their own feelings of grief in their own lives. I had to remain professional and not melt down. I was able to do that with everyone except for Gabrielle. Kangaroo had taken to her in a very specific way. Her nubby tail would start wiggling about five minutes before Gabrielle would click on the light letting me know that she had arrived and was in the waiting room. Which meant Kangaroo could smell her and feel her presence in the building lobby, in the elevator, in the hall, well before Gabrielle alerted me with the flicker of the light switch.

Once Gabrielle got settled on the love seat, she would pat the area next to her, inviting Kangaroo up. And Kangaroo would jump her boxer body up there and do her two or three little circles in the small space still available on the couch, and then curl up in a ball, her head resting on Gabrielle’s lap. And they would stay like that for the full fifty minutes. Kangaroo would leave a layer of caramel fur on Gabrielle’s black Vampire in the Sun clothes. She was now one of Hannah’s biggest customers. Gabrielle kept a roll of tape in her punk cross-body messenger bag so she could pull off the fur before venturing back into the public world again.

The little light in my office turned on, and I knew Gabrielle was in the waiting room. There was no Kangaroo to wiggle. I opened the door to let Gabrielle in, and I broke down into sobs. Gabrielle noticed immediately that Kangaroo was not there and she realized what had happened. She hugged me and started sobbing too. We both wailed into the other’s shoulder, still standing in the door frame. We both needed to grieve and release the tar. I knew that by crying with Gabrielle I had crossed a line professionally, but there was no stopping it. My emotions couldn’t wait for the fifty minutes to be over and the door to swing closed, like projectile vomit won’t wait for the toilet lid to be opened.

The other person deeply saddened by Kangaroo’s death was Jesula. Ever since my Kremlin clubbing days, I loosely kept in touch with the nice lady who made sure the coed bathroom was always so tidy. And when Jason and I bought a house together during our engagement, I reached out to her to see if she would like to come twice a week to clean. She was delighted. It was much easier work than her other part-time job as a janitor at a sports bar in Aventura and a great way to make an extra two days of income. So she came every Monday and every Friday. She loved having Kangaroo in the house while she worked. Mr. Cat would hide in a closet every time, like he had never seen the woman before in his life, but Kangaroo followed her from room to room, keeping her company as she tidied up, giving her licks when she bent down for this or that. Jesula was so irritated when I took Kangaroo to work with me and away from her that I again rearranged my entire client schedule so that the dog-allergy people and non-animal-lovers all came in on Mondays and Fridays. That way Kangaroo would be home with Jesula, and everyone would be happy.

Jason always told me Kangaroo was a special dog. Since she was my first one, I had nothing to compare her to, but I understood. Many dogs were adorable and eager to please and well trained and loving, but Kangaroo had a wisdom to her, like she was enlightened. When Mr. Cat would stubbornly stand in front of Kangaroo’s food dish, she would wait patiently. She would never growl or nudge Mr. Cat out of the way. She would just sit, with no agenda or time frame, like Siddhartha under the tree. She would wait and wait until eventually Mr. Cat himself would get bored with his power trip and wander off of his own volition.

Once Kangaroo was dead and gone, no longer patiently waiting, Mr. Cat also felt the loss. He wandered the new house, a bright two-story Mediterranean, and looked for Kangaroo. Mr. Cat would lie in all of Kangaroo’s favorite spots, and sit in the living room nook, where her dog bed once was. Mr. Cat was also lonely and depressed. His best friend, aside from me, had just vanished one day. I tried to explain to Mr. Cat, while holding him over my shoulder and deep into my hair, patting his rump, that Kangaroo had died quickly without pain and we were all very sad, but he needed no explanation. He knew his friend was gone and that a darkness had descended on our happy home.

We all grieve differently. There is no right or wrong way. I wanted to immediately get rid of everything that reminded me of Kangaroo. Get it out of the house. Donate it all to an animal shelter, so the visuals of her absence didn’t blind me. Her basket of toys and containers of treats and myriad collars and matching leashes seemed to be in every corner and on every counter, reminding me of their uselessness.

Jesula was horrified. At first she judged me for the perceived precision and coldness with which I grieved. She refused to let me part with all of Kangaroo’s stuff so quickly, and she clung to the soft purple dog blanket and canister of peanut butter treats. But she understood it was ultimately my choice. And when she saw the sadness in my face, she was reminded of what I hoped she always knew. That I wasn’t cold. And that I was so distraught I couldn’t handle moving forward in any other way. I watched as Jesula quietly took Kangaroo’s favorite blanket and favorite toy out of the donate pile. She brought them home with her so she could grieve in her own way, with soft, faintly doggie-smelling physical reminders.

Jason was so shut down he didn’t have it in him to argue with me. But he insisted on keeping Kangaroo’s cheery yellow collar and heart-shaped stainless steel tag, which he hung on the corner of his bedroom dresser mirror. So he could see it doubly. Once as it was, and once in the reflection.

And we all forged ahead in our own ways. I knew that no matter how we individually coped, processing and time were what we all needed. What I didn’t know then was that my beloved dog’s death was only the tip of the grief iceberg.