Second Firsts and Mr. Frankelson
Our dog, Fenway Frank, crossed over the rainbow bridge recently. Frank, or Frankie as he was better known, and occasionally "Mr. Frankelson." Because if you have a pet, you know they can't have just one name.
We've all heard about the stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Neat and tidy on paper. In real life, they show up uninvited, out of order, and some overstay their welcome.
But there's something nobody really talks about.
Second Firsts.
The first time you have to do something without your faithful companion.
The first time there's a delivery at the door, and instead of an explosion of barking and that familiar scramble of paws on the floor, there's nothing.
Just silence.
The first time you crack some eggs, and you don't hear the clip-clop of a certain someone coming down the hall for his share.
The first time you come home from the grocery store and the food inspector isn't waiting by the door, tail wagging like crazy, nosing through every single bag looking for his treat. Because it was always there. And the times you forgot and quickly tried to slip something from the counter into a bag at the last second, and he'd gobble it up but still give you the side eye like, Really?!
The first time you vacuum and the canister is still full of his hair.
The first time you roll out your yoga mat and he's not there to plant himself directly in the middle of it.
The first time you wake up and notice how much time you have. Because there's no morning routine to tend to. No long walk where he'd stop to sniff every single blade of grass like it held the secrets of the Universe.
How you miss those walks.
Evening comes and no one is watching the clock for you. He's not waiting for his evening walk, his dinner, or you telling him about your day.
Weekends are the toughest.
The first Saturday at the farmers' market without him butt-sniffing his way through the crowd. The first coffee at Steadfast without hunting for the shady spot together, because he loved to people-watch as much as you did. At least that's what you tell yourself.
The first time you drive by the dog park and don't pull in.
The firsts keep coming. You don't always see them coming.
Grief is funny that way. It hides in the ordinary.
In eggs and grocery bags and dog parks and shady spots.
In all the small, unremarkable moments that somehow held everything.
