Shattered Rituals

I never noticed the ritualistic nature of my life until I was confronted with the absence of those rituals. My dog--my best friend for the last 9 years--died yesterday. All of our daily rituals were shattered in an instant. In retrospect, I realize this shattering occurred gradually though, like a nick on my car windshield that expands slowly from the origin with web-like projections until the structure is too weak and the slightest stress fragments it into an incalculable number of incongruous shards. The nick was the loss of Bel's appetite. She wouldn't eat, so I ceased the ritual of rising from bed at six, habitually scooping her food into her bowl, and taking her outside to pee. The ritual wasn't completely lost though. It transferred into the administration of pills, the medicine I hoped might keep her alive. Every twelve hours I gave her the pills, disguising them in peanut butter until the peanut butter no longer offered enticement, and then resorted to placing them in the back of her thoat and forcing her mouth shut until she swallowed. No more 7am and 4pm feeding because the exercise became futile.

After a while, she became too weak to walk or play. I'd say to her, "You wanna go for a walk Bellee? Go for a walk?" but her ears would no longer perk up at the sound of the word. She would no longer "sit pretty," resting precariously on her hind legs with her front paws raised in the air, while I clasped the lease around her collar. Eventually, I had to carry her up and down the stairs for her to use the restroom because any excess of impact could irritate her hemangiosarcoma, causing her to bleed to death internally.

 I see now that the loss of my rituals were also the loss of hers'. Rituals are important to a dog. They operate as a cycle of expectation and fulfillment. She lost the expectation and the fulfillment followed. Knowing that she would soon die, I ceased the rituals of bathing, brushing, and clipping her nails. She detested these things. They made her feel helpless. I wanted her end days to contain the modicum of joy that had been relegated to her in her condition.

The only rituals that never ceased were the kiss goodbye and the late night cuddling. Each day before class, I continued to kiss her goodbye, and receive at least one lick on the cheek before I left. "One kiss, one kiss, Bellee," I'd repeat until I got that one half-hearted flick of the tongue. When she got home for surgery, and no entreaty would be rewarded with a kiss, I should have known that all hope was lost. Until her last day, Bel and I would continue to sleep together, her little body cuddled up between my legs. When she was in too fragile to be engulfed by my legs, I crawled to her spot on the bed and laid with my arm curved around her emaciated form. This is how we slept on the night before her death.

I sleep alone now. I get no kisses goodbye, and I'm no longer greeted with her gaze and a couple licks when I get home. For this reason, I've left my house once, and I don't want to return. All hope is gone. All rituals are lost. This is an initiation devoid of rituals.