Grief and Praise

Originally shared as Momo Magazine #18 July 26, 2021

I’ll be sharing some of my writing from my old newsletter, Momo Magazine. This piece was written in July of 2021, not too long after Momo died. I’ve modified the writing a little bit.

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A few weeks ago, sleeping on my dad’s sofa, I had a dream that Momo was in a pool, and he couldn’t swim. He was slowly and peacefully sinking. I lifted him out of the water and placed him on the side of the pool. He looked at me, and without words, he said “Andrew, I appreciate how much you’re trying, but it’s time for me to go.” I woke up, checked on Momo sleeping on the floor next to me, and wiped the tears from my cheeks. I knew that it was his time. I’m not saying that I let a dream dictate his fate, but this dream revealed something to me that I was afraid to admit. The following days involved hard decisions, and a heavy heart.

As you may know by now, my beloved Momo, forever my royal king, left his failing body on Friday June 16th, at 13 years old, on my friend’s farm near Ottawa. He was suffering from arthritis and dementia simultaneously. So, I planned his end-of-life ceremony.

I don’t know a lot about grief, but I want to share my experience. I believe this old guy’s statement is the closest we’ll come to understanding it, or maybe Pema Chödrön or another enlightened human can offer us some wisdom. But our shared experiences help us make sense of this complicated journey, and help us understand ourselves.

When my mom passed in 2014, I didn’t have the tools I have today. With my mom, I tried not to feel everything. I drowned my emotions entirely. This made it a lot more difficult to process my emotions. But this latest brush with grief, losing my best friend Momo, was the hardest I’ve experienced. I believe it’s because I leaned into it. Momo was an extension of myself. We depended on each other. I wanted to feel everything. I held Momo closer and closer as I knew what was coming. When I finally made the hard decision, I couldn’t leave his side. I slept on the floor next to him, laid in the grass with him, and held him up when he couldn’t walk.

It’s not like we have a choice with our grief. Most of us have experienced grief, and still are. Reading the messages that you sent me after losing Momo, I witnessed the scale of his impact, and also found lots of common threads and helpful bits.

There are some things that we know: that everybody experiences grief differently, and that it’s not something we overcome, but rather something that stays with us for life, usually softening with time. I’ve heard the metaphors of a ball in a box, waves, and glitter. You sent me poems and memes and photos of your own beautiful dogs you’ve lost. When we lack understanding, it seems we often seek commonality, art, and humour. All of this helps.

Momo, June 19, 2008 - July 16, 2021

I’m still navigating this grief, and will for a long time. Here are a few of the things I’m grateful for, and things that have been helping:

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Boo

Boo helps. A lot. I originally adopted Boo for Momo, and over time I’ve come to realize that he’s here for me. He sticks by my side. He keeps me busy, entertained, he makes me laugh, and gives me someone to talk to. I can see him looking around sometimes in quiet moments. I wonder if he’s looking for Momo. He’s definitely getting a lot more love from me, and to be totally honest I think he’s mostly confused about that.

Boo, waiting for the hot sun to set, a few nights ago in Manitoba. I decided to dust off my camera and start taking photos of Boo a little more.

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This Trip

I’m currently travelling back to Vancouver. And though I’ve grown somewhat tired of travelling alone (dogs excluded), this is a solo trip I needed to take. I’ve tried to honour Momo in my actions, too. Like having patience in the stress that a trip inevitably brings. I try to stay in the same place for longer than I typically do, grounding my feet, and jumping in a lake when I normally wouldn’t. Somehow telling myself “this is for Momo” gives me the courage to jump into murky lakes and rivers, and I’m always happier once I did.

Last week, Boo and I found a private little beach in Northwestern Ontario, and stayed there all day and all night. We swam, roamed freely, picked raspberries, chatted with locals who stopped for a quick swim, and meditated. It was a day that I desperately needed, and it found me.

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"Weep but don’t wail."

“Let not the eyes be dry when we have lost a friend, nor let them overflow. We may weep, but we must not wail.” – Seneca’s 63rd letter to his friend Lucilius (Letters from a Stoic).

I cried for three days. Not constantly, but occasionally, and it’s the most I’ve cried in my adult life. I know I can dig up a cry whenever I need to, but instead I let it come to me. There’s no shortage of triggering moments. I try to welcome them, do my best to accept them, and let them pass. I remember a podcast talking about “grief theatre”, like if I dig into the grief enough I could really show people how much pain I’m feeling. I’m sure I did this a lot in my youth. Not very Stoic, young Andrew.

It's moments like this one in Southern France that will forever be hauntingly beautiful.

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Returning Places

Travelling East with Momo and Boo, I had a feeling that Momo wouldn’t be returning with me. We stopped a hundred times and laid a path of memory breadcrumbs. Camping sites, lunch spots, trails, a new memory in each place. Returning with only Boo, as the same sites unravel in front of us in reverse order, I’m faced with the choice to skip them or stay. These places have become sacred to me, they’ve become a church. A place to spend time and to meditate. A way to honour Momo. I’ve been stopping when I can, retracing the last memories I shared with Momo.

Objects have become sacred too. Momo’s toys, his bed, his bowl, I use them all. I want them to be enjoyed. I want to remember these things. His collar, however, that’s sacred. That gets a special spot as long as I’m alive. His bandana has been tied to my belt since I removed it from his furry neck, the neck I reach down for out of habit while I’m driving to give him a scratch. I sometimes find Boo there, as if he’s standing in for Momo.

Glamis Sand Dunes, which I've visited a few times with Momo. I'd return any day. 

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Love Him Every Day

In Momo’s final years, I like to believe I did everything I could to help him. Indoor swimming sessions, massage therapy, chiropractic therapy, countless vet visits, natural remedies, and endless medications. I practiced my patience. I slowed down my walks. I gave him one-on-one time. I miss helping him, in all honesty, and in those last few months and years, I know there’s nothing else I could have done for him. I suppose I could have provided more sheep for his enjoyment, but that would have been irresponsible.

(January 2024 update: being sober was one of the greatest gifts to him and to myself in his older age. It allowed me to be present with him, and gave me the patience and understanding I needed to care for him.)

I'm grateful I had the time to give him this attention. I'm glad I offered myself to him as much as I did. Knowing this helps a lot. I guess this is the praise side of grief - love like you know it won’t last forever.

His last day, one last classic side-hug.

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The Ceremony

I’m so thankful that the stars aligned well enough for me to have an at-home end-of-life ceremony. My friend’s farm was perfect, the sky opened up, the space was already sacred enough to feel like a warm embrace. I didn’t realize how important this was when I was planning it. Afterwards, my dad noted the importance of the ceremony. It was art in itself – it was a creative manifestation and a final collaboration between Momo and myself. It was an anchor of a moment, something I can always connect to, something so visceral I can still feel it. It was simple enough – a few blankets and some flowers and other trinkets down by a river. A fire burning, the earth under our bare feet, a river flowing, birds singing. It was a lovingly crafted ceremony, no matter how extravagant or how simple, and it will always be there for me to access.

I know that mine was a special case. Sometimes, tragedy strikes and these events happen unexpectedly. Sometimes, our busy lives or the weather don’t allow for a beautiful ceremony. I’m grateful for the time I had to prepare myself for this. But I recommend a ceremony no matter how a pet is lost. To give space for our transition, to give our memories dignity, and to honour our pets. It could be a special dinner with all of your dog friends, a mindful quiet time in a park he loved, or a hike alone or with her closest friends. Do something your pet loved, and do it with deep intention and reverence.

At-home euthanasia isn’t going to be available or accessible to everyone, but I’d truly recommend it. Momo was terrified of vets and it’s not how I wanted to see him go. The mobile vet I called in Ottawa does offer a service in the area to those who can’t afford it. I would recommend asking, if this is you.

Check your area for mobile vets that offer this service, and share the name of a local vet in the comments if you’ve had a compassionate experience with one.

The ceremony.

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Grief is Praise is Grief

Martin Prechtel talks about grief and praise as being the same thing. The practice is to grieve what you love especially when you have it. To truly love someone is to know and accept their mortality. Without the fear of losing someone, we can’t fully appreciate them.

Run, sweet boy.

That’s all I have so far. I expect this grief to evolve, I expect to be reminded time and time again of what an amazing dog Momo was. I still believe he’ll live forever. His spirit still has a huge presence in my life.

Thank you again for the support, the love, the shared memories, and for checking in. I commonly get asked to share a favourite memory of Momo. Since I don’t have just one, here’s a funny story that does spring to mind:

Years ago, I was walking Momo down a busy sidewalk. In front of me was a mother carrying a young boy. As he looked over her shoulder, he watched Momo with a smile. Excitedly, he said to his mom “It’s Momo!”. His mom, without looking behind her said “Yes! That is a doggy that looks like Momo!”. I just smiled.

With love,

Andrew and Boo

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Pre-order my new book. Find Momo Everywhere is a whole-hearted tribute to Momo. A children’s book about dogs, love, loss, and nature. Written, photographed, and illustrated by yours truly.