Next to our couch, where the chaise meets the plaster and there’s a little gap before the arm of the seat begins, we have a small plaque on the wall that reads “Ollie Billock Memorial Service Window.” It marks the spot where my Boston terrier Ollie would stick his head when he wanted to beg for treats or whatever I was eating. That was his access spot to jumping up on the couch, his spot for head scratches, and the path from my legs down to his bed.
The plaque was the sweetest gift from my husband after little Ollie died, and marked years of both of us saying, “Ollie’s at his service window!”
When we first put it up, I would smile at it while crying about the loss. I would (and still do) rest my fingers on it when I want to feel a connection to him. Even now, nearly a year and a half after his death, I feel a monumental sense of longing for his sweet wrinkled face and old-man potbelly. I think about him every day.
Recently, I’ve begun looking at Boston terrier puppies at local rescues. We have a cat, Fiona, and another sweet pup, our Japanese spitz Gertie, but I miss the dynamic of two dogs in the house. I miss the unique personality quirks Bostons have. I miss the joy of being a dog’s person. My husband is Gertie’s human through and through, but I’m sometimes an acceptable second choice.
Photo: absolutimages / Shutterstock
As I’ve browsed photos of these adorable rescue critters, I’ve noticed an overwhelming feeling creep up on me: guilt.
Ollie was my baby. I got him when he was the smallest puppy, the runt of his litter — when he could fit snugly in the crook of my elbow. He lived a pampered, spoiled life. This dog had four beds, buckets of toys, and blueberry facials once a month. He had fans around the country in the form of my friends whom he adored, and vice versa.
Once, I commissioned an oil painting of him. Another time, an artist at The Anti-Cruelty Society painted a watercolor of him. Ollie was cherished. When was 15 and an old achy curmudgeon, a horrible seizure stole him from me.
I feel like I’m cheating on him when I look at photos of puppies.
He was, and still is, deserving of my whole heart, whether he’s alive or not. And I worry that on some ethereal plane, he’s going to think I’m trying to replace him. He’s going to be running around in his little doggie afterlife feeling less than and feeling like I’ve moved on from his fuzzy friendship.
Of course, this is not true. I know I could never replace him. Nothing ever could fill those Muttluk booties. Am I trying to close the gaping hole in my heart he left behind? Maybe. A part of that hole will always be there, though, no matter what.
A few months ago, I shared my thoughts with Nancy Mello, an animal communicator and medium.
After she was done sharing Fiona’s concerns about the lack of catnip in the house and Gertie’s demands for more chicken nuggets, she walked me through Ollie’s last few days and his feelings about my puppy window shopping. I hadn’t been home when he died, but she told me he’d wanted it that way. He didn’t want to see me hurting. And he didn’t want me to stop looking at puppies.
Mello told me that what Ollie wanted was to continue taking care of me. A new puppy in the house is his preferred method for that since he can’t be around on a level I can see or feel. A puppy wouldn’t be a replacement — it would be a continuation of his love.
The more I think about it, the more I wonder: What’s so bad about filling up that gap Ollie left behind, at least partway? If Mello was right, then it’s exactly what he hoped for. And if it helps relieve some pain and hurt for me, isn’t that a good thing? I still don’t know for sure. I do feel like I’m at least on a path to soothing my guilt, though.
Jennifer Billock is an award-winning writer and best-selling author. She's been published in The New York Times, Smithsonian, Wired, and National Geographic Traveler.
