A Year without You

I awoke in the middle of the night to your loud cries. We were at my parents' house for my grandma's funeral. I found you in their living room (I couldn't coax you into my room that night) half-paralyzed and terrified after losing control of your bowels. It would be the third time in about two weeks I found you unable to get up from the prone position, and I knew. I knew you couldn't go on in this pain, humiliation, and fear. I knew that leaving you alone ever again would be out of the question. I got you up and tried to calm you. Just then Larry came through the door, also having heard your cries. He took you outside in the cool October air to help you stretch your legs and get you calmed down. I stayed inside to clean up the mess. My dad awoke and looked in shock at my mother's white carpet, now completely brown. I begged him to go back to bed, and he reluctantly went. I knew that her carpet would be the last thing she would worry about, as she is a dog lover, and also loved Primo. I cleaned it up anyway, and went outside.

You were laying down again, in a shallow puddle, Larry standing beside you, and I was afraid you had passed away. "Is he alive?" I tentatively whispered? "Yes," Larry said looking down at you in love. "He's just resting." "The water probably feels good," I said, reaching down to pet you. You had worked yourself into such a frenzy. Who wouldn't--not being able to get up. Of course that is terrifying. We stood there in the blackness for a long time as I listened for your breathing to slow down. I looked up and saw Orion's Belt, crystal clear and dazzling, and I knew what I had to do. 

"He can't go on like this," I gulped. "I know." Larry said. He knew too. 

I think I remember every second of that day. As your life passed around 3:30 pm, my life, at least as I knew it, stopped.

The truth is, it hasn't really started again and I feel as empty now as I did when I had to place a terrible phone call.

I've been to some nice places since you moved on, but you're always there with me. I go to Eagle Creek all the time--one of your favorites. Larry and I often visit the spot where you jumped from a cliff down to the shore of the reservoir, and that funny look on your face, as if you were saying, "Look what I did! You guys should try it!" When I'm with Larry, the memory will elicit a smile, but when I'm alone, a tear is more likely to present. 

We've done a few camping trips. You loved hiking and getting to eat "camp food," but you didn't really love sleeping outdoors. You would look at me and seem to portray confusion as to why the hell we were sleeping outside on the ground when we had a perfectly good house to sleep in. 

Before Larry came along, you and I sometimes camped together for hashing events, sharing my tiny tent and air mattress, and you seemed to love it. Funny thing when Larry came along--you were not willing to give up your rightful place on the air mattress.

The first month or so after you died was the worst. I hated waking up, going to sleep, coming home, or leaving. I broke the habit of looking in the window as I drove out, where once your beautiful head would sit on the window sill, breaking my heart with your "Why can't I go?" stare. Just the other night, I was making salmon croquettes, and as I was spooning out some the juice from the can into Abby's bowl, I remembered how salmon was your favorite food. 

Abby misses you too. At first, she kept looking for you, meowing, looking me in the eye, as if to say, "Where's Big Fella?" I don't know if I should tell you this or not since you were always so jealous of her, but she has been a very good kitty since you left. I think she also feels lost without you and needs constant companionship to help her get through. 

Remember the day I brought Abby home from the Humane Society? December 20, 2001. I let you sleep on the couch because you were pretty upset at having this new creature in your house. When I brought you home April 1, 2001, you met my first cat, Tabitha, and you did not seem bothered by her at all. Tabitha died that August. But Abby bothered you, probably because she loved you and kept trying to cuddle with you. You were so mad! You barked and growled at her. Soon she decided that if you were going to be mean to her then she was going to frighten you by staring at you. 

I always knew when she was staring at you. If I were anywhere else in the house, you would come and tattle. You make me come and see what she was doing to you. Sometimes she'd attack you. She'd hang by your neck and bite you, and even though you did not like her, you never hurt her. You were always gentle with her. Sometimes you'd try to nibble on her back. Sometimes you'd take out your biting frustrations on the couch, bed spread, or Turkish rug. But you never hurt that poor mangy cat who was so sick she was nearly dead. 

Over the next years, I would think of you both as my roommies, maybe even my kiddos. On cold nights, we'd all sleep in my bed. I really loved waking up wedged between the two of you. I felt like I had the best life because I had you two.

You and I had so many great times. Remember hours-long walks on the Monon Trail and canal tow-path? You were so popular that strangers knew your name and would call to you on sight. 

I haven't yet been able to wipe your nose prints from my car windows, bedroom window, and sliding glass door. One of the smudges even has some of the yogurt you would like from otherwise empty containers.

I miss the way you always made me laugh. When I had hardwood floors installed, you followed the installers around and laid on their equipment. Abby of course followed you following them around because she was your little sister. They called to me, "Amy? We're really sorry, but would you mind moving your pets?" Then when I had the gas fireplace installed, you followed them around, keeping any eye on them or maybe hoping for a gentle chin rub. Then when I had the security system installed, you followed them around too. Once you decided that they were okay, you laid on their tools and gave them constant eye contact. When I had events in the Beat Lounge, you gently tried to herd everyone in to one room where you keep an eye. Your work done, you'd sit atop the steps, playing sentry. People who wanted to go downstairs would have to step over you. You didn't move a muscle.

Everyone loved you, even non-lovers-of-dogs. 

Remember all of our road trips? Our first was to the Smokey's where you had your first raccoon encounter. Then we spent a week at Tybee Island, and you held court on the screened in front port, questioning all passers-by of their business. Later we spent some time on Appalachian Trail--far too little as far as you were concerned. Remember the light house tour and running on the beach at Van Buren State Park and the joys of licking the cup from our Sherman's ice cream? Remember our trip to Cleveland? I bought you a bone so you'd stay occupied while we were out exploring, and the bone drove you to insanity as you desperately tried to hide it. Remember our week at the beach house in Cape San Blas? One day, you just jumped the gate and took off on your own to the beach. 

We used to walk about five-six miles a day together. People always wanted to stop and pet Lassie, but you were so funny. You sometimes hated particular kids. I always wondered why. You didn't like every single person you met. You were an excellent judge of character. Except for in the case of my neighbor, Roy. He is a really good guy. When you really like someone, you try to put your butt in his or her lap. When we went to Atlanta for my show, you loved Dave and Linda's youngest son. I think you noted that he was gentle, like you. 

Remember eating all of Larry's Christmas cookies and pretending like you had no idea why he was mad? Remember the huge messes you would make with the trash, and Larry covering for you? 

Remember our trips to Michigan, and my nieces and nephews you constantly petting you? You were so good to them.

Remember going to certain events, and kids would just flock to you? They'd lay on the ground with you and pet you, and you'd take it all in.

You were 3 when you adopted me, and you died at 16-1/2. I thought I'd have you for longer, I really did. That last Christmas, I thought you'd had a stroke, but it was just vertigo, and I really thought I'd lost you. I ran out and bought you a new bed that day. I'll never forget how excited you were to get a new bed. I'll also never forget how excited you'd be when Larry presented you with new toys--Buzzy Bee, Mr. Fishy, and Larry Bird. 

We started planning vacations around you, picking dog-friendly places. We picked a place back in Cape San Blas, renting for two weeks instead of one. You died just a week or so before our departure. I saw all the places you liked to run and play on the beach. When we were planning a trip to Glacier or Acadia, we looked for houses that accepted dogs. 

I don't walk nearly as much since you left. It took months for me just to get back out there, and I still feel lost sometimes not having those twice-daily walks to mark the start and end of each day. At night, you'd get restless if I waited too long to say, "Wanna go for a walk?" and you'd pace and grab one of my belongings in my mouth. You'd snort and prance.

You loved sleeping under the Honey Locust tree in the back yard. I still see you curled up at the base of the trunk. I still see you curled up in the corner of the living room. And beside my bed. And when we sit down to dinner, I see your head on my lap or peaking through Larry's bent arm, hoping to get just a bite.

It's been a year, and I am surprised how quickly the tears come if I spend more than a few minutes thinking about you. I think because of that, I haven't spent long periods of time thinking of you. I miss you so much, Primo. 

You were there for me every second of those 13-1/2 years. You saw me through the divorce and the merciless depression that followed. During the divorce, I was told to find a home for you. I didn't. I kept you. During my depression, I wondered if you might be better off with a married couple than with a single woman. I even had a couple in mind, but thankfully, I couldn't do it. I needed you so much. You greeted me warmly when I'd return from a crazy trip around the world. You kept Dave company and cheered him up, and you were so great to him that he even got two dogs of his own. And you LOVED Kara and Mercy, especially Kara. Wasn't Dave good to us? Primo, I wish I hadn't gone on those trips sometimes. But knowing that you brought Dave such joy, maybe it was okay? I did miss you terribly while I was gone.  

One time, I was catching a flight in the morning, so I dropped you and Abby with the Dave the previous night, and for the first time since leaving the Air Force, I came home to a come to an empty house. No one greeted me. I was still unstable at that point, and I fell to my knees realizing how much love you gave me.

I got you four months after Phoebe died. And now it's been a year since you've died, and although I've looked and I've visited other dogs, I haven't been able to do it. I keep thinking that no one will ever be as good as you are. I know I'm right. Someday I will adopt again. And someday, I'll lose him or her too. 

And someday, I'll come to the Rainbow Bridge, and Phoebe, you, and maybe someone else will all be there to greet me with kisses. 

Primo, you gave me 13-1/2 wonderful years. You gave me more years maybe than you actually wanted. In human years, you were well into your hundreds. You were deaf and blind, but allowing you to also be lame seemed cruel and selfish on my part. I often wonder if you can understand why I did what I did, and if you can forgive me? 

One day, when I feel a bit stronger, I want to post all your pictures here. One day when I can look at them longer than five seconds without crying.

Today we're going to Eagle Creek to think about you. Then I'll sit beside the tree we planted for you. And I'm going to tell you how much I miss you.