Push Through
Thunder: Intimately Intricate & The Writing Cooperative Contest
“Bzzzzz, Bzzzzzzz” I watched from my bed as my silver flip phone vibrated and danced across my computer desk, almost falling off the edge. The caller ID read “Auntie.” I knew why she was calling.
“Thunder’s gone,” she managed to say, her voice cracking. It was clear she had been crying.
Thunder was the part Labrador, part Pitt Bull dog that had been in our family since I was seven years old — 12 years of my life. She had developed cancer and had been in pain for quite a while, so the best decision at the time was to “put her to sleep.” I asked if she was in pain and Auntie said she maintained her usual calm and peaceful demeanor. She told me she stayed by Thunder’s side the whole time and talked her through the transition from life to death. Auntie had such a soothing, soft, almost musical tone to her voice most of the time. I knew this comforted Thunder.
Thunder was gone and all of my memories with her flashed through my mind like a montage in a movie.
I wish I could have been there and said goodbye but I had just started my freshman year in college, hours away. Auntie had called me beforehand and let me say “goodbye” over the phone to Thunder. I thanked her for being a good dog and a friend. It was awkward but I imagined she knew what I meant. It reminded me of the time I temporarily said goodbye when I was 13.
I imagined what Thunder’s eyes were like in her last moments.
One of my earliest memories with Thunder was pretty traumatic. She was my Uncle’s new dog — after he and Auntie got divorced, my Uncle started to sort of “collect” dogs. Thunder was young but not a puppy. She was lean and her short hair was super white. Since she was one of his most well behaved and people -friendly dogs, I spent so much time with her and she loved it — as did I, of course! One day I went with Uncle to walk his pack of dogs and he let me walk Thunder separately. Now, I was a small-for-my-age, skinny seven year old. Thunder was my size or a tad bigger. He gave me her red leash and Thunder was basically walking me. As we crossed a busy intersection, nearly to the curb, a hurried motorist sped around the corner and hit Thunder’s hind legs. She was down and clearly injured, but alive! As my Uncle cursed out the driver, I felt an enormous amount of guilt for what just happened and cried. My Uncle never let me walk his dogs again and I was cool with that!
She would live with Uncle for a couple more years until she came to live with me and Auntie. We treated her like a Queen (yes, with a capital Q) and she deserved it. Uncle had bred her a couple times and we could tell she was just plain tired. Thunder’s emotive, dark eyes — in beautiful contrast to her white fur — were clear indicators of how she was feeling. Over the years I thought she could even sense when we were upset or sad. She would cuddle up and rub her head on your hand or leg at the right moment. And I had many moments like that. Auntie did too.
I imagined what Thunder’s eyes were like in her last moments.
After the phone call from Auntie, I hung up and immediately crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep. It was daytime, I had no classes and my roommates were gone. This was one of my earliest experiences with loss and grief. I didn’t expect it to physically hurt so much. My stomach was in knots, my head hurt from all the crying and I just kept hugging myself in a tight fetal-like position. The impact Thunder left on our lives was everlasting. She was a good girl. I cried for that loss and for my Auntie who would feel the loss a little more than me. It had been just her and Thunder for the last few years. I knew it would be hard for her.
I’ve had to encounter loss and grief several times in the 17 years since losing Thunder. Auntie died six years later, then Uncle, Dad and my sister. I don’t have any profound advice for dealing with grief or loss. It is hard. It sucks. No matter how often we experience it, that does not change. I am still figuring out how to navigate through grief and life without my loved ones. There is one thing I do know, for sure. I carry the memory of my loved ones with me in everything that I do. I imagine them all pushing me forward. Pushing me to follow through on ideas, goals and passions. In their life on earth, each of them had lifted me up and sometimes had more faith in me than I did — even Thunder! I push through, thanks to them. And for that, I am truly thankful.
