Hole In The World

Herself.

I am having such difficulty finding topics about which to write.  I try, and yet nothing meaningful springs to mind or to fingers. I fret about things over which I have no control, and about things I cannot change. There are petty annoyances and memories of dreams deferred and lost all bumping about in my head, taking up space and hampering productivity. I entertain myself with meaningless busywork so that I can avoid thinking about the cold hard truths of love and loss and endings.  I succeed, mostly, during the day.  

Tonight, when the Offspring are in their rooms and I am alone, I fall into the hole.  

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.  ― Edna St. Vincent Millay

I miss his ottoman shape, his stumpy tail, his expressive eyebrows. His fur was short and fine - much like the fur that Ancient Decrepit Dog has solely on her ears.  Ottoman-shaped dog was completely covered in ear-fur. I miss the tactile sensation of that fur.  I just looked to see whether he was resting in the dog bed under the side table in the family room, and then caught myself doing so.  I am sad.

I know he was just a dog.  But he was not just a dog. He was my guardian and my companion. He was an ottoman-shaped witness to my happinesses, my sadnesses, my worries, my hopes and my dreams, taking all in through his calm eyes as he rested nearby or followed me faithfully through the house.  He never became impatient with me, scolded me, or mocked me. He never judged me. He always appeared to give me his full quiet attention when I talked; he yielded an impression that what was said was important to him. He was my shadow -- a shadow that listened and returned unwavering acceptance.

He was an enthusiastic greeter whenever I stepped through the doorway: a marvelous welcoming committee of one.  He was a soothing presence when my body or my heart ached. My feelings were never too big or too alarming for him -- whereas Ancient Decrepit Dog would hear sobbing or an angry voice and slink quietly out of the room, he would sit with me, drawing away my pain, calming my storm within. I never once held back my emotions in front of him out of fear that he would scoff or criticize. He was unafraid of my raw humanity.

With him, I could be unquestioningly myself.  And he loved me just the way I am, without reservation, without hesitation. Such devotion.

I'm sure that all seems silly to say, but it would be disrespectful not to acknowledge all that he was.

He was a Good Dog.

I know I should feel more grateful to have had such a marvelous, faithful companion for a decade. Perhaps I will, in time.  Right now, all I can see is the absence of what once was. 

In truth, I do not cry for him.  He is at peace.  He is no more.  Rather, I cry for myself, for I have lost what can never be replaced, and I am lonely without him.