I think everyone remembers March 2020 with some clarity. As the world shut down and daily activities screeched to a halt, our internal turmoils and battles became exemplified in many ways. I was a high school sophomore, experiencing my “Sweet 16” two weeks after any group gatherings and celebrations were deemed dangerous. My parents made me a poster, we homemade a cake (from a Duncan Hynes cake mix box, Clorox-wiped meticulously by my mother before I was even allowed to handle it), and I spoke with all of my friends and relatives over the phone.
I love my parents and my sister, and I, in all honesty probably would have spent my birthday hanging out with them anyways, but the limitations of COVID made it all feel so much…lonelier. My need for connection and companionship was more real than ever, and I started to formulate a plan to convince my parents to adopt a puppy.
In some ways the intense isolation served as a perfect planning period. I created a powerpoint of why my family should adopt a dog, how we could use the upcoming summer isolation as time to train them, and even the perfect breeds for our home and lifestyle. I was really dedicated. And after some very effective arguing, if I do say so myself (woohoo, future English major!), I finally convinced my family to adopt a tiny little labrador puppy, a silver lab who we named Luna (after Luna Lovegood of course, The Harry Potter series was our family’s movie binge of choice that spring).
That fall, I was the only one in my family not able to return to work or school. I did online school, and actually fared quite well academically. Socially, it was a different story. I became connected to Luna at the hip. Her whining forced me to get up every morning. Her endless energy forced me to take walks, spend time outside, and play with toys and chase her around the house and yard. She was the lifejacket that kept me afloat during one of the most difficult parts of my life.
When I moved to college, I missed her every day. My mom made me a “Luna Calendar,” full of pictures of her for every month of the year. I used to sit in my dorm room and cry because of how much I missed her.But she continued to grow with me. She forced me to find enjoyment outdoors when I moved back home over the summer, she always got the zoomies and gave me kisses when I went back home for the weekend, and she even served as a gentle and caring pet-mom to my kitten that I adopted to keep me company at school. She was truly my rock, and I know my family felt the same way for all of these reasons and more.
Last year, she started to have major stomach problems. She’s always had allergies — most likely a product of overbreeding,. She was allergic to most kinds of meat, except for fish (she was my little pescatarian eater). Over the summer and fall, she just got worse. The shock of how skinny she was when I got home for Thanksgiving break was incredibly difficult.
This January, we made the difficult decision to put my Luna to sleep. She was slowly starving, and spending $500 a month on special food for her was only prolonging the inevitable. She was only 4-years-old, but she wasn’t healthy anymore. I was able to spend winter break with her, then had to say goodbye about a week before I left. I was so heartbroken, and even more so that I had to leave home, and seemingly all memories of her behind when I went back to school.
The first few weeks were so hard. They say that grief comes in waves, and I never thought I’d experience the intensity of that current so soon in my life. But man, it pulled me under. I’d see a lab in the street and have to hide my tears on the bus. My roommate asked how my break was the first night we got back, and I burst into sobs with no warning. I was driving to work one day and listened to “Kokomo, Indiana” by Japanese Breakfast and instantly thought of Luna — the most random connection ever, but it sent me downhill again, and now she’s all I can think of whenever I hear those lyrics.
I have taken steps to keep her around me. I still use this year’s Luna Calendar, and I have a polaroid of her hanging in my room. I look at her collar every morning, and I even talk to the dog tattoo on my arm every now and then like it’s her (embarrassing, I know, but we all have our quirks). Weirdly enough, I’ve found that looking at all of these reminders with love has helped me escape the waves of grief more and more often. Instead of feeling sad when I see her picture, I try to remember how happy she was to be outside that day, and how much joy the outdoors brought to her life. She led such a vibrant life. I always try to remember that first and foremost.
I’m also taking a class this semester on Native American and Indigenous Studies, which has changed a lot of my viewpoints, but especially on death and grieving. Many Native societies view time as circular, rather than linear, and see the things in our lives as our circles interconnecting for a while. I like to think that Luna left all sorts of connections behind her that will remain in the cycles of our lives forever. She inspired my intense love for animals — something that I find to be defining about my identity now. She kept me afloat during a global pandemic, which I will always feel the effects of. She provided an outlet for both of my parents — my mom felt her company during early mornings and mid-day walks, and my dad always looked forward to taking her down to the park to play fetch on nice summer evenings. She helped my sister through the same trials and tribulations of high school that I experienced, and gave her a shoulder to cry on and a soft body to hug. She intersected with all of our life cycles, and left things that we will come back to again and again.
Ultimately, I still get hit by those waves of grief. I wish I could boop her cold nose or pet her floppy ears one last time. But the realization that her life, her presence, has left a lasting impact on who I will continue to be for the rest of my life fills me with gratitude and joy. I miss her so much, but I know that she lives on in the people whose lives she touched.