"Oh, I didn't tell you what she did earlier today," he says, out of nowhere. I smile, ready for yet another tale of our daughter's adorable antics. But, instead, he tells me how, when he got out of the shower earlier, he found her in front of the TV, watching "All Dogs Go to Heaven" (I marvel for a moment that she was able to set it up all by herself) and... crying. All alone. And how he hugged her and comforted her and they had a sweet talk... but as he's telling me, my heart is aching for her still-mending little heart.
Then later that night, she is begging our friend Wayne to play with his phone, and he makes the mistake of introducing her to this app where a cartoon cat repeats everything you say in a faster, higher pitch. He demonstrates it for her, and her eyes widen as she giggles. He hands it to her, and she holds it quietly for a moment, as if contemplating what to say. And then, clearly, I hear her soft voice, talking to the cat. "I'm feeling sad about Sasha and Ivan. Can you make me happy?" The cat's reply is garbled, since she spoke softly, and Wayne and I share a look across the room. He shows her again how to use it, and she finally understands, and then proceeds to spout nonsense words and silly noises the rest of the evening.
And then Saturday... Saturday we find this sweet little puppy, and she steals all of our hearts in seconds. And my daughter tells me in the car, "I still miss Sasha and Ivan, you know," as if she needs me to know this, as if she needs to clarify that this puppy doesn't fix that, and I can't help my smile as I tell her that that is OK, and she may always miss them, and maybe, just maybe, Sasha and Ivan are watching over her, and if they are, they are happy for her. She seems struck by that last statement, in a good way, as if the concept never occurred her, and I wonder if that was the right thing to tell her, but in the moment, it seemed the only way to let her know that yes, it is OK to be happy again after a great loss, it is OK to love another dog, it is OK to be sad and happy all at the same time, because Lord knows I am.
Saturday night, she is frantically searching her room for her "Doggie Heaven" book, one that she hasn't asked me to read in a while. She can't find it, and, a tad impatiently, I tell her to pick something else. So we read, and I tuck her in and ask her for her song choice. As she is thinking, she suddenly says, "I'm going to talk to God about something first," and squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them a few moments later, she wants to tell me, but we are interrupted by a tiny puppy entering the room, and suddenly she asks, "Can I hug my doggie good night?" Moments later, I am done singing, and I tuck her in and leave for the night. Except mere seconds later, I hear crying coming from her room--not fighting-sleep crying, but real, honest-to-goodness crying. I reenter her room, somehow knowing the answer before I even ask her what's wrong. "I miss Sasha and Ivan," she sobs, and I hold her close and cry with her. "Will you stay with me til I calm down?" she pleads, and of course, of course I will, and I'd even stay with her until she fell asleep if she'd asked.
It was moments like those, in those first few days, that made me wonder if we did the right thing, if maybe it was too soon. But moments like those are far outnumbered by the moments when I hear her coo to her puppy, when she hugs that little body close to hers and buries her head in puppy fur. Or moments when we all go for a walk and she calls out loudly to every person we pass, "Look at my new puppy!" Or the way she says things like, "You're my best dog" and "I love you."
And it is moments like that that make me believe we did the right thing. Because, grief... it is a strange thing. I know this. I know all too well the turmoil of mixed emotions. And I have my sad moments, too, just like she does, and will continue to (especially when she makes me read her "Dog Heaven," because I still can't get through that book without crying). But those sad moments are fewer and farther between, for both me and her, but maybe her more than me. And I watch her through the kitchen window, curls flying as she runs through the yard with a clumsy puppy on her heels, her laughter seeping through the closed window, and something in my heart soars. I always knew she was going to be OK, probably long before me.
