toast eater and mouth breather
I was texting a friend tonight - we are about to take a trip together and she suggested I mourn my dog by putting his fur and ashes in a Build-a-Bear. I texted back, "What the hell."
Guys I know Scout was just a dog. I grieve him just the same. I have friends who have mourned their dog's death more than human family members passing.
If you know me well, you know I am more of a writer than a speaker. Unless I am really comfortable with you, have known you a long time, my speech is halted, as I reach for words. On paper my thoughts flow like water.
When people ask me how I am (about anything) I have trouble finding the words. This tends to make me appear to be hiding something. I am just not that mysterious. I wish I was. My life is pretty much an open book. I over share, if anything.
Back to Scout. Today I had to crawl under my desk to plug in my laptop, and I saw the circular patterns marked into my carpet by his claws, as he often made a "nest" under my desk. The tears started. I smell his favorite toy before I go to bed. If that is not normal, so be it.
Dogs have been in my life since I was a bebé. Freckles, Cocoa aka Brown Girl, Bubbles, Chula, Peanut, Kate, Moose and Scout.
There is something so comforting about the unconditional love of a dog who puts their head on your leg.
Right now I don't know where to put my grief; how to handle it. I went to the dermatologist today for an annual skin check (as you do) and after they told me to get dressed and leave, I decided to go through their drawers and took a handful of samples. I don't know. Because I could.
Steve and I are watching Only Murders in the Building. I find myself liking, then really needing dark hair like Selena Gomez. I will also need her argyle sweater. My friend I am texting with tells me that I need something dark to put my grief in. She makes sense. Except for that Build-a-Bear nonsense.
Scout was complicated, emotional and flawed. Just like me. He loved the crusts from my Ezekiel toast I ate late at night when I couldn't sleep. At the end when I had to hand feed him, sometimes it was just handfuls of cheerios on the couch.
Two days before we let go of him, I told him it was okay to go. His heart was enlarged, pressing on his trachea. His breath smelled rough, like a metabolic, metallic trashcan. He wouldn't eat the pill pockets that he loved. I had to let him go.
I said a final goodbye and kissed him on the nose, after his body lay still on the vet's blanketed table.
Goodbye sweet boy, I told him, and walked out to the car with Steve, holding my breath all the way.
I am working on letting all the breath out, grateful for 15 years with a pup who gave us much to laugh about, who brought the joy of burying my face into his soft Havenese fur, breathing in the warmth and surrender of a dog in your arms.
Breathing out, now. And not yet ready to breathe in again.
