Tweets from Dog Heaven
Helping others healed me
Jake Ryan Gregg was 12 years, five months when he exhaled for the last time. Moments before, when I understood what was about to happen — what had to happen — I produced a roar that filled the sterile exam room. My body bent over. I kept my right hand on his back and roared a guttural sound full of fear and rage. The vet looked away.
I composed myself, caught the vet’s eye and nodded.
It was time. Jake was suffering with diabetes, cushings disease, blindness, and now kidney failure. It was nearly 1:30 a.m. on October 30, 2018. As we waited for his test results at the 24-hour clinic, I held him tightly, “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Let me go,” a voice said.
“Let me go.”
He was my first dog, my first love, my attempt at parenting when I realized children were not going to happen. I was 32 when a grey miniature schnauzer became mine and I became his. Our souls linked the moment he climbed into my lap in a grassy yard at a rural Tennessee home on a July afternoon. I’d come to call him Jake Ryan after the dreamy Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles. During the following decade we’d move, travel, get another dog, face heartbreaks, and navigate illnesses. We were in it together. Most nights he’d climb on my lap and lie belly-up with his head resting in the crook of my left arm. No matter his age he would always be my baby. He was calm, stoic, and gentle. In the 12 years we shared my life would see many changes. He was my constant. But since the six months leading up to our middle-of-the-night vet visit, his health steadily declined. Yes, it was time to let him go.
After my roaring stopped I whispered, “Lay down, Jake. Lay down.” He followed my command — as always. I placed my left ear on his back and began to sing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” When enough time had passed, I stopped and straightened myself. The vet listened for a heartbeat. None was found, “He’s gone”, the vet whispered prior to leaving the room. I walked to Jake’s face, closed his eyes, kissed his nose. “Go home, Jakey boy.”
The days that followed I felt hallow and lost. I’d instinctively get out his insulin at meal time. I took off from work, cleaned the house, tended to the other dog (now dogs), watched The Office, and responded to texts and social media comments. Eventually I had to return to reality. My heart wasn’t ready. I couldn’t properly process the loss; my grief deepened. I couldn’t make it through a class at OrangeTheory Fitness without crying; I started using the bike instead of the treadmill because it was easier to hide the crying. I’d tuck into myself and sob uncontrollably as the class went on with their runs, rows, and reps. Certain songs opened the wounds. And the worst part was that I’d play those songs on repeat. I made an entire playlist out of those songs. I wasn’t just struggling with my grief; I was wallowing in it for all to see. And no one wanted to see it. No one knew how to respond to it. The right words don’t exist. The grief of pet loss comes with no manual — for the player or the audience.
Around the one-month mark I started posting “Updates from Dog Heaven” on my Facebook page. I found reality too hard to manage so I created an imaginary place where Jake was having the time of his (after)life, hosting parties, and welcoming newcomers. It was a slight hit on Facebook. But when a friend asked me to check on her recently-arrived dog, a light bulb appeared. If she wanted an update on Rocky, would others? And if so, how could I find people navigating the loss of their pets? The idea of Tweets from Dog Heaven came to me like divine inspiration. I saw how all the experiences I’d had led me to it: a public relations career, a desire to help, my quirky writing and humor, and love of social media. I would find people give them the words I needed to hear. Through this, we’d create a community for others experiencing the grief of pet loss. It would be a place where no one said to “get over it, it was just a pet”. Instead it’d be a place to honor our pets and the emotions that came as a result of their passing.
This is what I wrote for Jake Ryan’s bio: “I checked into Dog Heaven on Oct 30, 2018. My job is to be liaison between Earth and Dog Heaven. All of us miss our humans, but it’s a lot of fun!”
Within two months, the account started to gain traction. His “numbers” weren’t astounding, but that’s not what it’s about for me. What matters is the responses to the posts, which began to help me move forward through my pain. Less than three months after launching the account, a pet parent independently reached out, asking for an update on their dog. The Dog Dad wrote, “Hey there, my good boi Mousse got to dog heaven a few months before you and I was curious if you’ve met him. If so, can you tell him I love and miss him? I’d really appreciate it. Here’s a photo for reference.” The photo showed a beautiful brown dog with a look of love aimed toward the photographer.
I took a deep breath before responding. For the first time for as long as I could remember my soul was on fire with joy. Only the brokenhearted can understand each other. Only we know what words comfort. Only we have roared in animalistic pain when our loved one’s body prepares to release its last breath.
Managing the account comes with an emotional price. I search “dog heaven” and send replies to those who’ve posted about their pet’s passing. The act pierces my heart the way a knife’s tip pierces a cherry tomato. Like a cherry tomato, my heart explodes. I continue to go back for more. Because even though my heart explodes, it heals. As I craft every response, I hold my breath and type a few kind words. I pause before hitting the “reply” button and question myself. “What if this offends them? What if they think I’m poking at their pain/loss? Will they know my intention?” The questions never stop me. I committed to Tweets from Dog Heaven. I knew my intentions were pure — and surely that would come across to them as well.
And it did! Oh my gosh, did it ever! People responded, “This is the best, thank you!” It was all I needed to mend my broken heart. It was the first time since his death that I felt a sense of normalcy returning. Original tweets share the excitement of Thursday night concerts (Kenny Rogers is the newest hit!), how guacamole isn’t extra, vacuums and fireworks aren’t scary, bouncing basketballs make no sound, the cloud beds are both comforting and form fitting, when you get to heaven you’re greeted with the most tantalizing charcuterie board. I mean it’s Dog Heaven — they have the best of everything. Jake Ryan gets incredibly excited to meet celebrities that visit and give belly rubs (he confesses that George Bush is the bestest belly rubber). Buckets of tennis balls sit on every corner. They throw themselves — and you don’t have to return them. Squirrels are super fast, so you can chase them all you want, but never catch them. On your anniversary you get all your favorite treats, an hour alone on the beach, a parade, and Tom Petty sings you Wildflowers (because you belong somewhere you feel free).
When I saw a news story of a mailman who gave a little girl a letter from her recently passed dog another lightbulb went off, “Yes, we can help people this way, too!” Followers will direct message me and with their help, I send hand-written notes from Dog Heaven updating families on their pup’s arrival and activities. I cry as pen words of love, appreciation. What I give — hope, comfort, kindness — comes back.
Pet loss is complicated and messy. I am complicated and messy. Helping those in pain is neither of these. Helping those in need and imagining a magical afterlife for Jake Ryan pulled me through my grief. In the time since I launched the account it has helped countless dog moms, dads, sisters, and brothers as they walk the journey of pet loss.
It’s been 18 months since Jake Ryan’s last breath left him. For the first few months without him I saw no way through the grief. I kept waiting for someone to pull me out. I kept waiting for the pain to stop. I tried everything (booze, exercise, a puppy, writing) I could to make it subside. Through Tweets from Dog Heaven I healed. It is my most humble hope that we’re doing the same for others.
