Thorbert loved to eat. His stomach had a built-in alarm clock for breakfast and dinner. When his internal alarm rang, he would get up from wherever he was resting near me, and sit very closely to me, staring soulfully, wagging his stumpy tail urgently, sending brain waves of "DINNERTIME" through the ether. He especially enjoyed the little treats - a piece of cheese, a square of cooked chicken - that I would give him with his pills and his insulin. Whenever I worked in the kitchen, he'd stand near me, ever hopeful. I'd give him a tiny sliver of the carrot or bell pepper I was chopping. When I made myself lunch or a snack, he'd patiently wait for a taste. I always saved him a molecule. And when I cleaned up, he'd stand at attention by the dishwasher, attempting to lick away any food morsels I'd left on cutlery or plates.
Without Thorbert, I now must rely on my alarm clock beeping in the morning. I have no motivation to get up and start my day since I need no longer adhere to the schedule of meals and insulin for him. Similarly, at 7 PM, I realize that there is no longer any urgency in the pet-feeding schedule. The joy of cooking, or even of making a simple sandwich, is diminished without his enthusiasm for ingredients. The pleasure of a bowl of ice cream is lessened since he is not there to lick the spoon afterwards.
Food is just not the same. Nothing, in fact, is quite the same.
Because Thorbert always followed me around the house, I would do all my downstairs chores one after the other, collecting items to go upstairs in the front hall until it was time to move upwards. I did not want him to have to run up and down the stairs, taxing his tiny legs, just to stay near me as he preferred. Now, I can move around the house with impunity, make multiple trips with laundry, or whatever I like. Yet I still feel the urge to consolidate. It's an ingrained habit -- now, alas, an unnecessary one.
When I used my elliptical trainer, Thorbert would lie on the chaise/couch nearby. If I was tired or needed a break, I would go and sit with him for a few minutes. Thorbert was not the kind of dog who asked for a lot of physical attention, but he would always sigh in a relaxed and sleepy manner when I'd pat his ears and ruffle his furry neck. Now when I exercise, I have to find some other distraction for my rest interludes.
Every time I walk up the path to the house, I can't help but look through the glass of the front door, first towards the floor and then towards the raised shelf behind the couch where Thorbert would wait for me to come home. My eyes search and search for his familiar form. It is not there. The other canines eventually greet me when I enter the house, but it is not the same.
Some moments, I am peaceful, relieved that his suffering is done. Other moments, I forcefully reign in thoughts and questions and doubts that attempt to gallop through my mind. I cannot afford to allow "what ifs" to take up residence. It is Finished. Godspeed, Thorbert.
I know that the Offspring and Beloved Husband are grieving as well. They know I am sad; I am not hiding that. I am trying to show them that it is possible to reminisce and be sad, and to remember with love and move onwards, too. I hope that their hearts are not too sore, and that they are healing in their grief.
Some moments, I can talk about him and about his absence. Then unexpectedly and suddenly, my voice catches and I have to stop and gather myself. I hadn't realized how much of my daily routines, and my heart, I had given to my ottoman-shaped dog. I cannot imagine ever again loving a creature the same way that I loved (and continue to love) Thorbert.
I am afraid to let my tears fall freely. I fear that crying may release a degree of sorrow that no one should have to witness, and yet I cannot bear the thought of being alone in such grief. The only one who could withstand such weeping, provide comfort, and subsequently treat me the same as always, would have been Thorbert.
Today, I will think about how Thorbert sometimes used to lie upside-down when he was very relaxed. It never failed to bring a smile to my face. Good boy, Thorbert.
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