Separation Anxiety

by Laura Zigman

So little gives me joy now that I’m afraid I’ll get rid of every single thing I’ve ever owned and end up with nothing.

maybe that’s when the dog walks into the kitchen. Or maybe it’s later, when the dog is sleeping on the floor next to the couch, her paws twitching every few seconds and her face, in repose, looking so peaceful and calm—a rare thing for a sheltie, whose mission in life is to herd, to boss, to control—that it first occurs to me. I can’t remember. Does it matter? At some point, as the baby-simulating items go in and out of the sling, I raise an eyebrow and think: What about the dog? And then: What about the dog?

I

walk slowly across the house to the bedroom, kneel down in front of the white IKEA bureau that had caused Gary and me to fight so bitterly years earlier while putting it together—Gary had actually accused me of “withholding directions” to its assembly, as if I wouldn’t have done anything to cut our agony

Especially when it takes three or four times before I can grab her in a surprise attack and maneuver her inside, always getting dog hair in my mouth and enduring a moment when I fear I might drop her or fall over before finding the sweet spot of the heavy sling on my lower stomach and hip.

Those hours when the dog is in the sling are restorative for me. Like a new drug, it’s helping me taper off an old one, overlapping and masking the side effects of withdrawal. By which I mean, wearing Charlotte is helping me get through the end of Teddy’s childhood. By which I mean, instead of turning to my husband with that overwhelming sadness and longing, I’ve turned to our dog. No wonder we’re separated.

This is who I am now in middle age—lost and confused and shifting constantly between my own world and the real world. If the dog is helping me survive these dark days, then good for me. I shouldn’t be ashamed. In fact, I should be applauded for finding a harmless, nonalcoholic, nonnarcotic, noncannabinoid solution to my pain. (Right?)

“Wow,” he says, then shakes his head. “That’s sad.”

“Said the dude who vapes one-hits out the window and eats pot cookies.”

fake-talk into my phone past the library to preemptively avoid real-talk with anyone who might try to engage me in conversation.

I’m always waiting for Gary to panic, to make a scene, so I try to take up less space and air than he does. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since we met, unable to fully inhale or exhale; as if there isn’t enough room in the world for both of us.

No one sees the bird on your head except you.”