Going crazy

There’s a nightly ritual at my house. My dogs initiated it after Joe died, and there’s no getting out of it. Every evening around eight o’clock, the girls take turns climbing up on the ottoman by my chair, looking for attention. Hope, my sweet, goofy one hops up and nudges my book or my phone away, begging to be petted exactly where she wants me to pet her, for the exact amount of time she allows. Grace, her over-anxious, anxiety ridden older sister stands by impatiently, nosing Hope in the butt and sniffing her paws (they smell like Fritos) as she waits. Eventually, Hope climbs down, Grace hops up and gets her fifteen minutes of love.

Every. single. night.

It didn’t used to be this way. The girls have always been more Joe’s dogs than mine. Especially once he medically retired. He spent the most time with them during the day. If the weather was nice, they’d be outside all afternoon chasing squirrels and each other, which in turn meant inside sleeping most of the evening away. You’d find them stretched out in Joe’s recliner on either side of him. But, after his cardiac arrest in that recliner, the chair had to go. So, the girls started taking turns in my much smaller and less accommodating chair/ottoman set up.

To ring in the New Year I decided to rearrange the furniture in my living room. Honestly, I needed to mop the floors underneath the couches, so it was a good excuse to try something different. Plus, we could all sit together for our obligatory “pet me now” sessions.

Grace, the aforementioned apprehensive one, hid in the front hallway while I pushed the couch and loveseat around the room. Hope didn’t care what I was doing. That evening we all settled in for a movie in our “new to us” arrangement. One dog to my left, one dog to my right. Even though I couldn’t reach my drink, the remote, or my iPad, the girls seemed okay with the new setup and drifted off to sleep.

I, on the other hand, went to bed exhausted from all the cleaning and moving stuff around. Expecting to be out the minute my head hit the pillow, I laid there staring at the ceiling for two hours. I finally got up and laid on the couch, only to stare at the living room ceiling for another two hours. Happy New Year to me.

The next morning the alarm came all too soon. I drug myself off the couch and headed to work, already looking forward to bedtime. Every day I spend my lunch hour going home to let the girls out, eating a quick bite, and heading back to the office. When I arrived home the girls were happy to see me. Bouncing all over the place as usual, but it was kind of frantic in a way. As I turned the corner into the living room, they looked so confused. Normally Grace would jump on that ottoman while Hope stands next to me. Each hand scratching behind their ears and rubbing their necks, asking how their morning naps were, before I let them outside. But I moved the ottoman, and now they have no idea what to do. I changed their routine completely.

And then it hit me. This is why I couldn’t sleep last night. I changed my routine completely. Just by rearranging the furniture. Just like my Joe’s death rearranged my life. Fifteen months in and the silliest things trigger my grief. I don’t fall into a puddle of tears like I used to. Instead, I lay awake staring at the ceiling all night long.

I know Grace hated the change. She’s kind of my freak dog. She knows when the ceiling fans get reversed and paces until you put them back. She wouldn’t allow Joe’s urn to stay in the living room. I honestly think she could smell him. And she watches the security camera monitor alerting me when a Walmart bag blows by in the wind. If she acted all crazy and confused, she knew I’d put the furniture back the way it was.

Which is exactly what I did.

Who would have ever imagined rearranging furniture would be a grief trigger? It makes sense though. I struggled every time I boxed up his clothes, cleaned out his man cave, gave away his tools. The dogs knew. They knew I wasn’t able to sleep the night before. They knew our routine changed, and they did not like it one bit.

There’s a little voice in the back of my head that suggests change would be good for me once in a while. When I listen to the voice, sometimes it works out for the best. And sometimes I spend hours putting everything back the way it was so I can sit in my tiny chair with two forty-five pound needy, pushy, completely happy dogs on my lap.