Sunshine Boy

Hello, dear readers. It’s been a very rough couple of weeks. I’m sorry that it’s taken me a while to post. This month has been tough.

On August 9th, my first puppy (meaning a puppy I raised & was mine in my independent adulthood), Wampa, passed away. The loss hurts, & it’s hard to even imagine that he’s gone, as he would only be turning 6 years old in October. He was always exuberant & full of energy–dragging people behind him or chasing a ball or splashing in water or nosing through snow piles. I can’t relive all of the details of his passing yet, but let me say that a heart defect that went undetected (despite screening and regular check-ups, he had just seen the vet a week before) claimed his life. My hope is that his passing was painless and swift, though I struggle to think that he passed during his journey to Utah without his family by his side. I’m still in shock & processing. He never made it to Utah & a new life in the West.

When I think of Wampa, I see him at the farm in New Hampshire, enjoying the yard & trotting from sleeping spot to sleeping spot–couch to bed to under the dining room table to someone’s lap & so on. His sincere eyes searching for love, the nose nudges under the elbow to remind me that he wanted attention, the massive heft of his hind end as he maneuvered onto my lap on the two-seater sofa in the coal room. He knew I was his Mama, & he’d search for approval from my eyes, looking for signals of affection & reward. He knew the word, “outside,” & he’d excitedly circle & head to the door, pawing it & wagging his tale. Certain words he knew all too well, like my spelling of “bone,” “B-O-N-E,” & that last vowel sound prompted his running to the refrigerator for a marrow bone purchased from the butcher.

He’d drink himself to death with water if you kept filling his bowl. Wampa didn’t know moderation. At all.

And it’s hard, almost impossible, to grasp his permanent absence. You’d think I’d be better at loss & death, having been introduced to it in my early 20s in losing a parent & close sibling. But no. It doesn’t get easier to understand. Or maybe my head gets it, but my heart just doesn’t. And while I know all of the bigger things like a cosmic energy that binds us & that he’s still with me in spirit, I still feel robbed. My selfish side kicks in & I just want him physically here for me to love. His collar arrived first (picture in the lap image directly above), the collar I picked out with a Star Wars theme because of his name (he was a Christmas gift, a little snow monster). Colorado State (where he was brought) sent a casting of his paw along with the collar, & I saw the size of Wampa’s huge paw again. The paw I’d hold in my hand when he’d want attention from me. His massive paw that even as a puppy impressed people.

I’d smell his paws like I would take in the scent of my son’s head as a newborn.

My emotions wash over me at weird times. Lots of tears, periods of feeling numb, weird existential moments, delight in remembering his antics or silliness–a roller-coaster of emotion that is connection. Loss makes me want to close off & retreat into my introvert shell, cocoon away. Yet, life is too precious for that to last long. Part of the enjoyment of life springs from the understanding that it won’t last forever. Unlimited supplies of anything decrease value. We’d start to take things for granted or just discount them altogether. But when we savor an exquisite piece of expensive chocolate or soak in the last moments of a sunset, what incredible experiences await. What would life be if we just avoided caring or attaching to others because we fear loss, rejection, or death? Life is one half of a dichotomy necessary for meaning.

As I continue to process the loss of my sunshine boy, I try to comfort myself with the rewards yielded from that emotional risk I’ve taken. If you’ve seen the movie Arrival, then you know that big life question. Would you risk profound loss & incredible hurt to know what true, genuine, authentic love feels like? Give love freely without strings attached or reservation? For me, it’s worth it.

I’ll never regret a moment with Wampa, even if my heart now has another hole nobody & nothing can fill. It’s his & always will be.

 

 

 

 

36 thoughts on “Sunshine Boy

  1. Beautiful photos of Wampa and loving, cherished memories.
    Death is never easy, who ever it is in the family. Pets play a huge part and sometimes more in the family.
    I can see and feel those loving eyes in the photograph’s.
    So sorry to hear of your loss.

  2. Yes. He is your sunshine. Here are some of the lyrics from a Gene Autry song:

    You are my sunshine,
    my only sunshine
    You make me happy
    when skies are grey
    You’ll never know dear,
    how much I love you
    Please don’t take
    my sunshine away!

  3. Thank you for sharing the story of your beautiful boy. He looks so much like my Nellie, who I lost many years ago. As you described Wampa, it brought back many fond memories of Nellie….her sleeping in the sun with her head propped on the window sill, wildly chasing anything I threw, nudging my arm for attention. It’s so hard to lose such a dear friend. The sadness is overwhelming but I do think it is worth it to be able to have had all those years of unconditional love. Condolences,
    Lori

  4. I’m so sorry that your Wampa has passed. The tragedy of loving pets is that we out live them many times over. That he loved you and you him will never die.

  5. I am so sorry for your loss. Pets are family and they are never easy to lose. He was a beautiful boy and he will be with you always. My heart goes out to you. I know your pain.

  6. This is such a lovely tribute to Wampa. I’ve never heard the risk of love and the permanence of death described as finishing an exquisite piece of chocolate, but that is such an apt symbol if you’re a chocolate lover. You’re a talented photographer and writer.

  7. He was a gorgeous boy! I completely feel your pain right now, as my beloved dog died just last week. He had been ill for about two weeks and was admitted to the pet hospital before we went on vacation. Fortunately when he passed he was in mine and his dad’s arms, in his bed, so it was lovely even while it broke our hearts. May our boys find each other across the rainbow bridge, and chase those bones together xxx

    https://spookymrsgreen.com/2019/08/28/not-the-holiday-we-expected/

    1. Oh my goodness. I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’d love to think our boys would play together, as Wampa LOVED other dogs. How sweet. ❤️

    1. Thank you for reading and caring. My heart goes out to you. There are no words for these losses, this sadness of losing a beloved companion. So sorry for your loss. 😔

  8. So so sorry for your loss. What a beautiful tribute you have written here. And such insightful thoughts on experiencing love and continuing to be open to that, in spite of the pain. I hope your grief soon melts to nothing more than precious treasured memories. What a lovely life you gave your boy, your photos are clear evidence of that.

  9. I’m so sorry. Beautiful memories and images. <3

    My bestia turns 7 in April. I smell his paws often. I have taught him the concept of 5, 10 and 20 minutes (depending on how many fingers I point) and always explain to him who is coming over, where we are off to, what happens next. He gets it all. And I loved Arrival too. Everything for a reason.

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