The Unbearable Lightness of Val Kilmer

Best intentions. They always have a way of falling by the wayside, don’t they?

When I started this little project a couple months ago, I had no idea what would come my way. Such is life, of course, but I was not prepared for how my heart would be shattered in two.

Thirteen years ago, I separated from my then husband. We had been married for over 15 years and, along with the fracturing of our relationship, I had to come to terms with the fact that I would not become a mother to my own children. At that point, I was in my late 30s and I had wasted time. Not just connected to my fertility, but my love and trust. To be fair, my now ex-husband played more than a passing role with all of that too.

To help try and steady my world, I did a really stupid thing: I got a dog. People in the midst of grief and tumultuous change should perhaps take up something requiring less of a commitment, but there I was.

The good and bad news is that little pile of floof, farts, and endless opinions was not just any pup; he was Thor, Dog of Thunder, an English bulldog that was equal parts silly boy, proud protector, neurotic baby, and, more than anything, the hero I might not have wanted, but the one I needed for that time and place in my life.

I had known a few folks with English bulldogs–big slobbery beasts that were known for their inactivity more than anything else. This was not the case with Thor. He craved not only attention, but activity. He had boundless energy and the only way to quell it was through miles and miles of walks and runs. Luckily, he did not suffer the particular breathing issues so often found in bulldog breeds.

His special physique also came with a strange psyche: his entire litter was burdened with behavioral challenges. I brought him to three trainers before one finally gave it to me straight: like with humans, there are some dogs who need accommodations, whose quirks need to be worked around for their whole lives. That was Thor: anxiety-ridden, aggressively friendly, and emotionally needy. He craved constant attention and validation, but, in return, he was the most sensitive boy a dog mom could ever ask for. I can’t tell you how many times I cried into his fur, my arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Thor never had the typical health problems of his breed; instead he had a series of non-life-threatening ailments that required fairly immediate and exceedingly expensive treatment. This included a pro-lapsed urethra at 9 years old, a condition that simply doesn’t happen in older, neutered dogs. The vet braced me for the worst. After a battery of tests, which all came back normal, the diagnosis was made: chronic masturbation. Pro tip: your dog isn’t “fluffing” the pillows on the couch.

For years, he did suffer from a collapsing trachea, a condition that occurs to a variety of breeds and sounds awful, but is very treatable, until it isn’t.

About three weeks ago, I rushed Thor to the emergency vet after he couldn’t catch his breath. I had some maintenance done on my HVAC system and, per usual, he barked and barked–even on his anti-anxiety meds. He had reacted this way a multitude of times before, but this time he went into respiratory distress.

At 1:45 am, the vet called. It was time to say goodbye. At 230 am, I held him as he took his last breaths, crying into his fur one last time.

There aren’t words for what that dog meant to me. He saved my life so many times. Made me feel loved and worthy when I just didn’t. These weeks without him have been rough; the grief will catch me unaware and I have nowhere to put it except into heaving sobs as I dissolve into a puddle of goo.

In my life, I’ve experienced lots of different types of grief. When my mom died, I spent years mourning the relationship we never had, the woman she never got to be. Grieving my marriage was about rethinking what I thought was true about myself and relationships in general.

Grieving Thor is, excuse the pun, a different beast: this hurts as much as it does because I got to love him fiercely and fully, and have that love reciprocated in a way that I can never fully explain. He was a dog with a lot of problems that I was able to care for because of my very particular circumstances, and I was a human who needed to know a pure kind of love, one that would help me understand my resilience and value. We found each other at the exact right time and I will never not be grateful for that.

So, here’s to you, Thor, Dog of Thunder. If Valhalla or some other after life exists, I hope you’re there with John and he’s giving you the appropriate amounts of popcorn and cheese, which would be, of course, all of it.

You are and always will be the best boy.

Thor, Dog of Thunder, as a Puppy of Thunder