One week
It’s been one week now since Billy died. It’s a week I never want to repeat.
I still have these overwhelming and irrepressible waves of grief and sadness wash over me and waking dreams of his dying in my arms. I’m at a real loss as to what to do with my day. There’s no real reason to get dressed in the morning, I have no one to walk. When I can get up enough concentration to actually work, I find myself looking over at this old plastic Colombo yogurt cup that still has treats in it. I haven’t been able to throw it away yet. It’s been habit for 13 years that every time I sit down at my desk, I pick a couple of treats out of the cup to toss over my shoulder to where he lays on his pillow, behind my chair. Except there’s no pillow there any more. I always had to be careful not to push my chair back too quickly and run over him. I’m still doing that. No one starts shoving my chair at 3:00 to tell me to take a break. I don’t hear anyone throwing a kong around any more. I no longer trip over a rope toy. No one greets me when I come home. There are no dust bunnies in the hall. The bed is cold and no one tries to push me out of it. There was a rain storm the day after he died and I wasn’t out in it getting wet. There was a snow storm a couple days later and I had no reason to be out in it. The snow storm had thunder and no one hid under the desk.
I put on my heavier jacket last night and there was a treat in the pocket. There are no longer any glad bags in my pants pocket. When I do go out, there’s no reason for me to come back home. I always used to have to plan on being home between 5 and 6 for an evening walk. I no longer do. It’s hard walking around town because I no longer have a leash in my hand. I’ve been trying to go to places where he wasn’t allowed (the library, bars, restaurants) but I’m always checking to see how soon I need to be home and then remember that I don’t have to at all
I keep forgetting to take my meds. I always took them when I got back from the evening walk, but there is no more evening walk. I miss the fight at every corner over which way we’d turn. He always insisted either towards the river or towards the bakery.
For 13 years, we were inseparable, night and day. This is going to take a long time to get over, I think.
| This is his very first picture. He still has the collar from the shelter. And the ratty brown carpet I had then. He’s about six months old, possibly as old as a year. | And this is one of the last pictures, taken in December of last year. Look how grey! Aged 13½ |
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