Strawberry: The First Tutor
Strawberry wasn’t actually a dog. She was a tortoiseshell barn kitten I picked from a litter at a distant cousin’s farm when I was around 5 years old. My family told me much later, they were all mildly horrified that I had picked what they considered the absolute ugliest kitten available.
I remember thinking she was very cool.
I don’t remember much, bits and pieces here and there. I do know that she survived living with three children under the age of 6 who only partially grasped that she was her own living being. She also tolerated living with two other cats (Doris and Smokey Joe Wood) and later on, dogs that came in and out of our family.
She had teeny tiny paws, a warm purr, and enjoyed sitting next to me, but never on my lap. We all considered her a very stereotypical cat. If you opened a dictionary, her picture would be right there. Doing things that cats do. And because my family liked cats but valued the biddability of dogs, I remember her being part of the family, but also a little separate.
She came to mind the other day, as I was wrestling with - surprising absolutely no one - deep sadness. I remembered one day when I was maybe 6, maybe 8, I don’t really know, and I was crying over something difficult for me at that time. I remember kneeling by my bed - this could have been a spiritual grief; I remember I often felt very guilty for how bad I believed I was and how much I disappointed God; or, it could have been very average, and I was trying out flinging myself across my bed the way the princesses did in the cartoons (they all did it, so it must have been good right?).
Whatever was causing me distress, and for whatever reason behind it - I was crying knelt at my bed. And Strawberry came in, leaned against me, then hopped onto the bed, laid next to my head and purred.
She was the first creature who offered comfort I could recognize; and she certainly wasn’t the last.
I know I sat with Molly.
Yadi & Pip hugged my side the day I came out to my family.
Yadi would cuddle in his old age, and bully me into touching grass.
Eugene would shift from full chaos gremlin into soft anchor when my body would fail.
Finnick regularly sat on my chest, neck, and head with deep purrs during depressive episodes & physical body breakdowns.
Haymitch frequently would offer full body snuggles and pressure.
All of them offering co-regulation, comfort, and attunement; and teaching me how to both receive and offer connection to them as well.
Allowing myself to grieve them all has been difficult. To honestly face my grief is to acknowledge the fact that these wonderful creatures were my primary education in these skills. And with their sudden departures, I’ve not just lost friends, but the tutors who were teaching me how to safely connect with others. And that…is a lot to process.
Facing the grief means I am facing all the grief.
The loss of friends. Of teachers. Of comforters.
The grief of having needed them as teachers.
The more I look at it, the more pain there is.
No wonder it has been so difficult to allow myself to grieve Yadi’s passing. And no wonder so many other people struggle with the loss of their pet. Facing one loss is facing so many losses. They were, in a way, a connection to my own humanity and my learning how to be human.
I am thankful for Strawberry. Who was willing to connect with me, even though I, as a child, once trapped her under a laundry bin to play “animal shelter.” Who did not know how to respect her or read her body language. She would still, in quiet moments, offer to just sit with me, and let me be sad.
May I learn how to comfort myself in sadness, learn how to seek out comfort, and learn how to quietly sit with others in their sadness as well.
