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Elliot was adorable: a white, medium-sized poodle doodle, curious though skittish, and increasingly at home while I drank my morning coffee. He even decided he might as well sit beside me on my turquoise couch. He nuzzled; I petted.
My friend had brought Elliot over to visit. Well into my third act and widowed for seven years, my friend had been thinking a dog might be just what I needed.
Though I am allergic to dogs (much more so to cats), I seemed not to have an adverse reaction. I found myself thinking more seriously about a potential pethood of my own. Would I, could I, get a dog? I’d watched older people with pets and had read that pets provide solace for those living alone, their lives becoming more robust and congenial.
To what extent had I come to accept the solitary nature of my widowhood? My remarkable companion of body, mind, and soul for almost 50 years is gone. I have children and grandchildren, close friends, and a life that expands with creative projects as time passes. But I live in a house bigger than needs be, too often empty, with days too often bare. During what I have come to call my Widow Hours, from 4 until 8 p.m., the air thins, the world tilts further toward insignificance and I roam malls or drive aimlessly looking for something that no longer exists.
Uncoupled in the mall, I watch couples walk by and imagine the bond they might enjoy. Driving around at twilight, I pass lit picture windows and conjure families protected from loss. The stories I make up in my head correspond only to the yearning for a lost, safer time, before his death split my life into the time “before” and the time “after.” They measure the darker depth and dimension of my singlehood.
I feel like a skittish crone who is finding solitude sometimes pleasing but a solitary life less so. I accept that I must take on tasks my husband embraced with unbridled enthusiasm and make decisions that daily daunt me.
On my own now I manage accounts (more or less), consult handy humans for repairs (often unwittingly), read official notices (anxiously, fearing I will make an error), and argue with internet providers (repeatedly). When things break, however, I no longer rail at a possible almighty residing skyward as if my aloneness and inexperience must guarantee some kind of exemption from the ordinary breakages of the everyday. Rather, I strategize. I am a more seasoned widow, stronger than I ever wanted to be.
Dare I risk looking after a dog on my own? And if I do, must I risk the idea of losing another love? Do those of us who have lost a treasured part of our lives learn to risk more?
I ruminate without reproach or resolution. Perhaps I could suggest to my friend that I entertain Elliot overnight. He is adorable. But I also know that life with a dog will mean early morning walks in Prairie winters (whether 30 below or icy), vet visits (and expenses), a lot of energy (for a puppy), more responsibility (raising a puppy into a dog), and I worry about my inexperience. I remain stranded between What if? and Why not?
I remind myself: I was with Elliot for 20 minutes. I did not have an allergic reaction. This might not be a foolproof confirmation of compatibility but it makes me hopeful. Do I become the dog person that so many friends suggested in the early stages of my widowhood? (Notwithstanding those who suggested a possible boyfriend or second husband.) Could any pet function as a substitute for my life’s loss?
Sitting high and dry on that fence where such questions proliferate, I wonder if will ever take such a plunge. I am not as sure about a dog. I am asking my friend if Elliot might return. As an older widow whose identity involves a range of livelihoods as person, wife, mother, widow, baba, creatrix – I am also asking how a potentional pethood might tender the world I am trying to live in without my soul’s mate.
Deborah Schnitzer lives in Winnipeg.
