The Life and Times of Fluffy, Deceased by Julie Green
I’m knee-deep in a moral quandary. I’m talking full-blown existential crisis, here. All the big capital Q questions are being asked behind closed doors.
You see, our family pet has just died.
Or rather, the beloved part-spaniel, part je ne sais quoi that — having been abandoned in the dead of winter 13-odd years ago — camped out in my parents’ garage until they took pity on the pitiful pooch and took her in.
Fluffy* led a full, squirrel-chasing life. But old age had worked a number on her. She was epileptic, practically blind and in her last days, wheezy. She’s in a better place now. As grownups we can accept that.
Of course my parents were devastated. After all, she held the fort while their ‘other daughter’ ran off to university all those years ago. She kept the nest warm, so to speak.
The loss is still raw. But it’s not them I’m worried about. It’s my son. He’s nearly three. And he doesn’t yet know about Fluffy.
We are due to stay with my parents soon. Needless to say, my son’s revved up about the visit, especially about seeing Fluffy.
On one hand he’s too young to grasp death and all its grim hallows. On the other, I know I’ll have to feed him some explanation as to why Fluffy isn’t around and won’t be coming back any time soon, lest he harp on about her absence in front of my grief-stricken parents.
It’s times like these when faith would come in handy. If I were religiously inclined, I could wax lyrical about heaven and all the angels and saints, thus spreading a Band-Aid over the harsh reality. Although part of me wishes I could do that for my son, I know I can’t spin what to me feels like a fairy tale.
By the same token, the six-feet-under, worm-laden alternative is simply too grim a picture to paint for a preschooler. So what’s a mom to do? Distract him and hope that in time he’ll forget about little Fluffy? That might work with some kids, but not my son, who already has the memory of an elephant.
I remember my first pet. The morning I found Murphy, a blue budgie, ‘sleeping’ at the bottom of his cage. We buried him in an Avon box in the backyard. Looking back, that was an important ritual. Kids need closure. Without it, death never really hits home. And without feeling its impact, no real healing can occur.
My parents couldn’t bear to bring back Fluffy’s body. But trinkets, photographs… These could be placed in a special keepsake box as a way of honouring the lost pet.
When confronting youngsters, experts advise to keep it simple, while still adhering to the facts.
Fluffy is gone. No, Fluffy isn’t coming back.
When dogs get really old, they fall asleep and don’t ever wake up again. It’s called dead, honey, and it happens to people, too.
Of course it’s okay for us to miss her. But that’s why we need to make sure to have lots of fun when it’s our turn to be alive. Just like Fluffy did.
* Names changed
Julie M Green (aka Little Green Mom) is a novelist and freelance writer who rants and raves about all things mommy at Little Green One. She lives in Toronto with her husband and two-year-old son, Jackson. Visit her website or follow her on Twitter.