Visiting Peggy

By Soncirey Mitchell
Reader Staff

I hold my dog, Peggy, in my dreams.

She passed away suddenly in June after 15 years on this Earth. I was lucky enough to spend 12 of those years with her. In that time, we hiked and road tripped, floated rivers and gardened, and more often than not, we napped together in the sun. Even now that she’s gone, I still can’t stop shaping my life around the memory of her presence, as if one day I’ll look down and she’ll be there.

In the morning, when I wake up, I listen for her little snores. I take care where I step and check to see if she’s under my feet. I worry if she got her medication with breakfast. I see leashes in the store and wonder if she’d like a new one. When I get home, my eyes wander, searching for her little face by the door.

She was loving; she was bossy; she made me smile; she was stinky; she comforted me; she yelled at me; she was my best friend.

I used to think about what would happen when she died — to her and me. How would she pass? (A ruptured tumor.) How would I keep functioning after she did? (That’s harder to answer.)

The night she passed, I cried — sometimes silently, sometimes gulping sobs — until 5 a.m. I lay in bed imagining her little body and her final breaths, and even with a noise machine and music and the TV on, I couldn’t drown out my own mind. Eventually, the exhaustion won out, and I was able to sleep for a few hours.

Every hour I was awake, I cried for her. I asked my mom, “What do I do?” It was a hundred questions rolled into one. “What do I do to stop the pain?” “What do I do to bring her back?” “What do I do with all this love I still have for her?” “What do I do when the sight of the garden and the bed and the floor and the lint trap all remind me that she’s gone?”

My mom has been crying for her dog, Cleopatra, for more than 30 years. It’s all we can do.

On the second night after she passed, I dreamed Peggy was home with me. We went through our usual routine — food, a walk and a few chores. At one point, I turned to her and said, “I know you’re dead, but you’re here.” The realization wasn’t a shock. It didn’t bring the dream crashing down — in fact, neither of us seemed to mind. We went about our day and, from time to time, I would pick her up and feel her, warm and alive in my arms.

I woke up with the impression of her, cradled close to me. I said good morning to the lock of her hair that the vet cut for me. I thanked her for visiting me. I still cried throughout the day, but it wasn’t the constant deluge it had been.

There’s a lot of speculation, research and beliefs with regards to dreams. Across time and space, people have viewed them as prophetic, symbolic or as a form of communication between people separated by oceans or veils. At the moment, it doesn’t matter to me whether they’re a product of what we had for lunch or a gateway into the psyche. Dreams have become my outlet and reprieve from grief.

Dreams are a way to confront and interact with the reality of what and who we’ve lost — in a space that’s free from the distractions and stressors of the waking world. At the same time, we can briefly set aside our grief and learn to revisit the happy memories of the people we’ve lost, without the pain overwhelming everything.

It’s not about moving on; that cold term never suited life after loss. These dreams help me work toward a future where the weight of grief doesn’t crush the memory of love. Someday, I’ll think about Peggy, and I won’t have to fight back tears. Her warmth in my arms and the memory of our time together will outshine everything else.

I hope to visit Peggy again tonight, and she’ll help me heal, like she always did in life.