Screaming

Tonight I got on a search for 'coping with the loss of your dog'.  Because if I am, it's just barely, and only on the surface.

I saw a lot of helpful things that I've already tried, started, gone through.  I've saw my daily battle described perfectly.  The 'deafening silence', the 'phantom feedings', though I must admit, 'head-butting the bathroom door to be let in while taking a crap' seemed to be missing.

Scrappy, I just went out on a warm night to take some trash out.  I can see you wagging your tail in delight, you always loved night walks.  The scents were brighter to you, your vision far better than mine.  We never had any fear at night together.  Despite the skunks, despite the getting caught in severe thunderstorms.  Despite the walking into a murder investigation once, despite being startled by a frog the size of Zulu at the Swamp one time.  I was never afraid with you.

And I tell you, sometimes the only thing that helps is imagining myself screaming as loud as I can, as long as I can.

I do remember all the good times, and thank God for every second of them.  I do.  But they aren't your singing when I come home, and holding my stuffed guys isn't feeling you at my feet at night.  Hearing you snore, if I can miss the stupidest things.

There are times I can put it in perspective.  I've lost parents.  I've family who have lost husbands, wives, children.  A loss like these is a chunk, a percentage, if you will, of yourself you never get back.  I watched helplessly as my former pastor's mother lost 99.9% of her everything when her husband died.

But in a damn quiet house damn all alone, all I have is mine and that's you and you aren't here.  You're my baby, and babies aren't supposed to be DEAD!!! 


Slow.  Deep breaths.  Clear the tears and look for red squiggles in what I just typed.


You've all been where I am.  You calm yourself, and say, 'Boy, do I need a ____.'  But nothing you stick in there quite does the job, does it?  All your strength feels faked, all your faith shallow against the nightmare that never ends.


One of the suggestions was talk it out with someone who understands.  You understood.  You knew that night when we lay together on the floor that this was the last time.  So did I.  We understood.  And half of understood is now gone.



It's okay, folks, I'll get it tied back together in time for tomorrow.  Every day gets just a step easier, and soon I go whole weeks without breakdowns.  Why I think I might have skipped one day last week.  Maybe next week, two days.  Maybe by the 4th of July, I'll have run out of triggers and I'll have found a new balance, a new normal.


Tonight, though, I think I'll have a glass of milk and go up and hug the stuffing out of Chocolate moose and Farty Hippo, and baby talk 'em like I did you.  And turn on a radio to drown out the sounds of snoring no longer there.