In 2011’s The Muppets, upon learning the Muppet Theater is slated to be sold and demolished, Walter and his friends visit Kermit the Frog to break the news to him. They ask him if he could possibly reunite the Muppets to save the theater. Kermit replies that he had not seen the other Muppets in ages.
Thus begins the musical number, “Pictures In My Head”.
Kermit wanders down the hallway of his mansion. He glances at the portraits of his former friends and thinks about the good old days. He fondly recalls better times when Fozzie told lame jokes, Gonzo shot himself out of a cannon, and the Electric Mayhem jammed to sick beats.
He eventually arrives to a portrait of Miss Piggy, his former flame, which is shrouded in a tapestry–implying that their breakup was particularly painful, to the point where Kermit refuses to even look at it.
As he peruses his personal gallery and reminisces on his old friends and career, he ponders to himself whether her could have done or said anything to prevent everyone from splitting up and going their separate ways.
If we could do it all again,
Just another chance to entertain,
Would anybody watch or even care?
Or did something break we can’t repair?
Was there more I could have said?
Now they’re only pictures in my head.
“Pictures In My Head” is by no means the saddest Muppets song. That would be a tie between “Saying Goodbye” from Muppets Take Manhattan and “The Love Is Gone” from Muppets Christmas Carol. But it’s undeniably a tearjerker, a sorrowful lament that forces you to hold back tears listening to it.
And it’s a song I recently listened to following the death of my dog Buddy. My Shih Tzu terrier mix had lived with me for more than a good decade, from the moment my parents brought him home to our old house in Florida to my recent move back to my old hometown following the death of my mother.
I knew in the back of my mind his time on earth was limited. He lived a good dozen years or so, and the sand in his tiny doggy hourglass was running out. The weekend before he passed, he could barely walk, stand up, or even eat. When I gave him his last bath, I had to hold him up just to wash him. He was that unresponsive. Afterward, I laid him on his favorite spot on the couch, wrapped him in a blanket, and sat with him through the night. He passed away two days later.
I wanted very much to drive his body back to our old home in Florida and bury him in the backyard. That is where he lived his whole life, and that is where he should have spent his eternity. Sadly, we had to settle for burying him in the forest behind my new house–which, ironically, was my grandparents’ old home.
To this day, I wonder if I could have done anything differently. Could I have spent more time with him? Played with him more? Sat on the couch with him more? Given him better food that he could eat and swallow?
Was there more I could have done?
I ask myself that question often. The past three years have dealt losses to me. My mother passed away two years ago. My best friend of nearly ten years cut ties with me the year before. Earlier, my stepfather decided to leave to be with another woman, and (due to personal circumstances I wish not to divulge) I was forced to move back to my old home. And now, my dog of more than ten years has gone to the big dog park in the sky.
And I ask myself: Was there anything I could have done differently?
Could I have done more to spend time with my mother and mend what little of our tenuous relationship we had left?
Could I have done more to maintain my relationship with my best friend? Possibly do more to meet their needs and cater to their feelings so they didn’t feel the need to break up with me?
Could I have done more to spend time with my stepdad so he didn’t feel quite lonely and desperate to be with someone else?
Could I have done more to take care of my dog so he could have lived just a little bit longer? Perhaps make his last remaining days more comfortable?
That’s the greatest tragedy of loss: those lingering thoughts and questions about what you could have done to prevent it, or at the very least make that loss feel less painful. That regret of not doing more with what little time you had with your loved ones, and the shame of not being able to do anything more about it.
Was there more I could have said?
Now they’re only pictures in my head.
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J.C. Alexandre 