How to make an Animal Lover's Happiness Jar

I do love Liz Gilbert. 

I love her honesty and the down to earth vibe she exudes. I also think she’s wise, and heavens knows, we need wise woman to follow right here, right now. 

I love the fact that as a bestselling author, she’s approachable and friendly. 

Mostly I love her good, simple advice. 

Last year I read her post on creating a Happiness Jar. The idea being, that you scribble a note about the happiest moment of your day and pop it in a jar, where your collection of happy notes grows though the year. At the end of it, you tip out the contents and read a year’s worth of happy memories. 

I loved the idea. So I found a jar and some post-its and added a new happy memory every day.

It only lasted until February.

When I opened the jar and read some of those notes, it brought back the memories of how I felt a year ago. 

My Joe dog was sick. I knew he was dying. We were having a hot, dry summer in Johannesburg, it hadn’t rained in weeks and the heat was making me as cranky as hell. I wasn’t having a fun time. As 2016 (not surprising it wasn’t a great year, right) got underway, the idea of feeling happy, or capturing happy moments that I wasn’t really feeling, started to feel like a burden. I was irritated that I couldn’t feel happy, no matter how hard I tried.

The under tow of grief had already begun and I knew that at some point Joe was going to leave his body and I wasn’t ready for that. 

The point of this post is not to speak you out of creating a Happiness Jar, but to encourage you to get cracking on yours now.

Here’s why.

Joe died on the Easter weekend and I spent the rest of the year sliding down the slippery slope of sadness and depression. I finally had a turning point in November and felt like I could let him go, along with the tired, heavy grief.

So when I tipped out my Happiness Jar notes, the one that made me burst into tears, read:

4 January

Watching Joe run down the driveway towards me. 

I love that dog SO MUCH!

Two lines. Some words. Strung together on a small piece of paper. 

It was my happiest memory in eight weeks worth of notes. 

You see, I’d blanketed the entire year in gloom and sadness. I didn’t expect that sudden spark of happiness attached to a memory of him, especially one that wasn’t sad. 

Although the note is short and doesn’t detail anything else around that moment, I can see him in my mind’s eye, how his ears flapped along with each joy-filled bound. Because he only ever bounded along, joyfully. I can see his usual expression, his smile, while he exuded his pure dog happiness. 

And while that memory made me cry for a good half-hour, I was also flooded with happiness when I read it. It was like his essence was captured on that small piece of paper. 

That is the single reason why I think we should all keep a Happiness Jar.

Because we forget the small things. I remember the time Joe ate my Flower Essences for Animals book, the strap off my riding hat and chewed the side of my riding boot. His teeth marks are still visible, eight years later. I remember how he ran towards me with a rotting fish in this mouth! You can read that here. There are a ton of other memories, but it’s those small, insignificant moments from everyday life that we’ll want to hang on to and remember. 

 Make your Happiness Jar now, you’ll be glad you did!

The first time I experienced pet loss...

The first time I experienced pet loss I was eight. My dog died. 

He was only about six months old, and he was my first dog. 

As the oldest child, I was given a puppy. My dad brought him home one Friday night in the middle of winter. The first time I saw him, my dad was carrying him past the kitchen window, holding him at arms length because he’s vomited all over himself in the car.

He was christened Digger when we saw him digging his first hole in the garden.

I don’t remember much of our relationship. I guess we would have become better friends if time had allowed. I only have one or two photos of him and none where you can see his face.

He contracted what in those days was called “galloping biliary.” We discovered later that it was Parvo, but back then, there wasn’t an inoculation for it. He was sick so he’d been taken to the vet. Instead of coming home, he had to stay overnight. The vet called my folks the next day and told them that  he’d died.

They told me that night when they got home from work.

“Coll. Digger died while he was at the vet today.”

I remember feeling like I should have been more sad. But I can’t remember feeling any strong emotions. He was the first dog who had died in our family. We had two other dogs: Pépe and Crumpet and both of them lived well into old age. So the idea of having a young dog die was quite shocking. I don’t think my parents even knew what to make of that. 

What I do remember was going to school the next day. 

When I think about it now, the strongest memory from that event was the feeling of isolation. I was different to the other kids. My dog had died. I had changed. 

I doubt I could articulate those emotions then, but the feeling that something had changed was strong. I have a vivid memory of standing alone under the monkey apple trees and watching the other kids playing. I felt separate from them because of my experience. 

Of course, I looked the same on the outside. No visible signs of distress. No crying. We belonged to a farming community and animals died all the time. It was the early 80s. 

I don’t remember anyone crying because their pet had died.

Feeling isolated

The feeling of isolation that we experience after our animal friend has died is an aspect of grief that is often overlooked. It’s caused by the shock we are feeling, as our minds are trying to integrate our experience and make sense of it. 

Having experienced that feeling of isolation each time I’ve lost an animal friend, it no longer surprises me. I’m quite familiar with it... 

• I know it will pass in time. 
• I know that it could resurface when I’m in a social situation when I experience a sudden pang of grief. 
• I know that I’ll only feel it when I’m around certain people –– those who either don’t know that my animal companion has died, or those who don’t understand the depth of my connection and relationship with that animal. 
• I know that I’m experiencing this emotion because I’m seeing myself in relation to other people. 
• I know that when I feel safe and understood I can let my guard down and that feeling of isolation dissipates. 

This sense of isolation is therefore quite useful. 

It’s a way of helping us feel safe in situations where a careless comment about pet loss could cause us distress. 

It creates a bubble around us –– it’s like invisible padding. We can focus inwards, and notice how we feel and tune into what we need to feel comforted.

I call it The Bubble.

I used it a lot after my mare died. The shock was so extreme that the bubble stayed in place for almost a year. My mouth would work and respond to questions from people, I could have a conversation, but I was detached from reality. I could retreat into my bubble when I was sad and my bubble provided some cushioning for my broken heart. 

It didn’t dissipate any of my grief, but it was comforting to know that it was there and doing it’s job.

Do you remember losing your childhood animal friend? Do you remember how you felt? Are there any emotions from that time that you still need to process? Perhaps you can now, as an adult. You could give yourself the gift of gentle healing if that wasn’t available to you as a youngster. 

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