Good-bye to a good dog

I just got off the phone with my mother. This morning they had to put our dog, Gabby, to sleep. This is the second time that I've been unable to be there to say good-bye to a pet I helped raise right before Natalie and the boys were going to be making a trip to my parents, without me.
Gabby was not a young dog. While we never really knew what breeds she mixed, at 13-14 years old, she must have been old for any of them. She had a good long life, and I believe that she was happy for most of it. The only times it might not have been good were when Max was put to sleep, having to adjust to being the only dog in the house, and the last couple of years of discomfort from medical issues.
Today is even sadder, because it is not just not being there to say good-bye to a pet, but also the viewing of the mother of friends that we spent a lot of time with during high school, which was also this morning. I'm still a little stunned that the mother of of close friends is gone. She was someone I knew, and someone that cared for the whole group of us, treated all of us good enough to be family.
Looking back over updated from friends and family over the last several months, losing people and pets (and almost losing people and pets) has been happening a theme that's become a little more common. The risk of all of us getting older together.
Sitting here alone in an empty house I'm feeling the empty places where I used to have a friend or a connection. I'm probably a little more aware of the space in my heart and memories of all the people I'll never see again and the members of a large extended family (both people and pets) that have been there, even if just in the background, supporting those who I've been close to at those times.
It's easier to talk about the pets--a short series of dogs that have always been there--than it is to talk about the people. Caring for a dog and meeting a dog's needs is simple. And, as an owner, you're there for the entirety of that dog's history. Anytime you're with a dog, your dog, you are the most important thing in that dog's universe. And it's easy to make the dog the most important thing in yours.
People are harder. People have needs that no one person can ever hope to meet alone. Caring about a person is caring about more than just that person. You end up having to think about everyone and everything that is important to that person. You're aren't the most important thing in that person's universe, at least not most of the time. You are there. And it's easy to forget the people that have or are supporting you when you're sitting there worrying about something else in your world.
Right now I'm sitting here just thinking of the fabric of my life. I'm thinking about the holes, the sections that used to be filled with people and places and things. I'm thinking about the rips and tears beyond those holes, thinking about the pieces of those stories, the histories, I'll never be able to know. The spaces where the journey of a companion, a family member, or a friend ends and the story of how they became who and what they were that can now never fully be told.

In a way, right now, being here, home and alone, is somewhat easy. I don't have to post this. I can delete the evidence of what I've been thinking and no one else ever has to know. There's no one here to read my face and see how sad I feel. And I'm not there to have to share the weight of helping a fiend or a family member with their loss. All in all, I'm getting off easy.
By the time I'm back with those there now, things will be much closer to stable, pieces will have started getting back together, closure will be closer to being achieved.
I can take some comfort at this distance that closure for me is the resignation that there will be more holes the fabric, more unresolvable gaps in history. Closure is realizing that in helping people put their pieces back together, I am not empty handed, but the pieces that I'm holding are small and might not be missed. And maybe I can put them away, quietly, and keep them to myself.
Like I said, it was easier to talk about the dogs. It's easier to let myself feel the loss that only covers myself a few other people. Feeling about the people, that risks on overwhelming. That risks on forgetting that the people affected more than just myself.
So, Gabby, I'll miss you. Mom and Dad, I wish I could be there.
For Frank, Bob, Jamie and Marie: I'm so very sorry for your loss.