Beau and the Chaff in Our Heads

 My mother died in 2003.  My father died in 2016.  Do I still occasionally feel like giving them a call?  I think I do.

My dog, Beau, died last Thursday at the age of 13 years, 10 months.  How often do I think of him?  All of the time.  Do I need to let him out?  Do I need to let him in?  Should that door be open?  Should that door be closed?  I don't want him trapped somewhere.  Just where is he right now?

When we go through a transition-- we move, we leave a job, we complete a class-- our minds don't erase the corresponding tasks from our internal calendar.  Where did I put the cooler?  I know where I kept it where I used to live.  

It's 5 am on a Tuesday, I need to get up.  No, I don't.  I don't have that job, anymore.  

Have I done my homework?  Have I studied for the test?  Oh, that class is over and I got my grade.  

Even if we don't consciously have these thoughts all day long, our subconscious is thinking these thoughts.  All day and all night, too.  Who hasn't had these dreams? 

Beau was a good dog.  He was so happy to show off as a puppy when we first met him.  He was such a good student at puppy training and loved the Great Dane.  He was the size of the Great Dane's nose. He learned how to wipe his feet and the other instructors wanted to see him do it.  He was the first to notice our baby (in the womb) and became the proud dog of a little girl.  He would blitz around the room, when happy, and the most entertaining event ever was when our Persian cat, Gizmo, blitzed just to mock him.

Do we get another dog?  Maybe some day.  Our girl is not the perfect age for a dog.  Driving with him was problematic as he would yip and wake people whenever the car stopped.  Taking care of him in his last days was not sustainable.  He tried hard but could no longer control his functions.  I literally would carry him outside and then carry him back inside several times per day since he could barely walk.  There was extra laundry.  We found him on the kitchen floor next to the water bowl.  This won't be what is remembered.  His car trips to 25 or 30 states, his photobombing and his kindness to my sister's dog, Scooter, are the what we won't forget.  (Beau brought Scooter a toy when Scooter, my sister's dog, died one Thanksgiving.)

There is plenty to keep us occupied without Beau.  Did I mention a little girl?  Routines expand to fill the time we have.  Ideally, we are intentional in how we spend our time.

That chaff in our heads is called nostalgia.  I'll think about letting out the dog this week and maybe this month.  If I am worrying about letting out Beau a year from now, optimistically, it would mean I need a new dog.  

It's harder for us to move on from certain other things.  The deaths of our parents, our career change and our relationships with people can affect us as long as we live.  If we stay busy, it affects us less.