By Natasha Josefowitz, Ph.D.
LA JOLLA, California — My cousin Steve was picking me up to go out for lunch and said, “My son is in the car.” I was puzzled as I knew he did not have a son. He was talking about his dog, Diego. Sadly, Diego died recently. I have written much about grief; for some losing a pet can be almost as traumatic as losing a family member. A dog or a cat is always under foot. Their physical presence in our lives and need for constant care—feeding, taking out for walks, etc.—makes the sudden gap in our days when they are gone even more acute. One friend just lost a beloved cat who slept with her and other friends have recently lost their dogs. I have made condolence calls and looked into their tear-stained faces. Some said they would get another pet and love again, while others said, “Never again. It is just too painful!” We cannot replace that particular dog or cat, nor can we replace the unconditional love given by that particular pet. Although we can love another animal again, it will be different, but not necessarily less.
Pets and possessions are imbued with what psychologist Paul Bloom calls essentialism: the tendency to attribute essences to objects. In his book Why Buddhism Is True, Robert Wright gives an example of a measuring tape owned by John F. Kennedy. Someone paid $48,875 for it at an auction; it was imbued with a presidential essence. That tape owned by a plumber would be worth a few dollars, if that. The same holds true for a painting by a famous artist. Its worth is lost if it is discovered to be a fake. Although it is the same painting, it has lost the original essence of the artist. We attribute essence to many things. My grandmother’s earrings have that heirloom essence to be passed on only to a family member. The little $10 wooden penguin I bought in Antarctica reminds me of a cruise among the icebergs; I would never give it away. Why am I still holding on to that slightly smudged birthday card my son made me when he was six years old or my daughter’s first poem from when she was ten? It is because my children’s younger essences are found in these papers.
Not only do objects have an essence, there is an invisible string that ties the objects to oneself. I have a beautiful embroidered skirt I bought in Ecuador. This morning I put it on, and it made me look fat. (Have you ever heard that line before?) So I took it over to a friend who I know appreciates ethnic clothes; she loved it. It did not make her look fat! Somehow it was important to me to know that my skirt has an appreciative home as opposed to being donated to Goodwill. Why? There is a emotional string between that skirt and I; I have attributed essence to it.
The best example of an object given essence is the toddler’s security blanket or favorite stuffed toy which provides psychological comfort. When that blanket becomes too old and tattered, it cannot be replaced by a newer one as its primary essence will not be the same. Even taking away that blanket to simply wash it can generate a storm of tears. When my son left for college, he finally gave up the little red corduroy dog from his childhood. I still hold on to books I will never reread; they are part of my psyche. They will always remain on my shelf as trusted old friends imbued with the essence of their original discovery. I have trouble throwing out some of my earlier columns, now irrelevant, because they represent the essence of my past writings.
And so it is with all the things we have collected and every pet we have owned. Every possession has an essence attached to it. We surround ourselves with all those invisible strings that define who we are, as well as who and what we love. It is about attachment and loss, about being a richer person because of all the strings that surround us still. I keep photos of not only my family and friends, but also of my beloved dogs who have died. I look at those and remember with great fondness the times we shared and the gifts of love we gave each other.
In Memoriam
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
© Natasha Josefowitz. This article appeared initially in the La Jolla Village News. She may be contacted via natasha.josefowitz@sdjewishworld.com