Miss You Most

I miss you most in the evening. I miss the routine of taking you out at night for one last pee, shivering in the cold, peering through the dark, watching for skunks as you take your sweet time finding the right spot. I miss having to put up the baby gates to keep you out of the living room. I miss getting your Kong and filling it, and watching you dash to your bed, eager, anticipating. One last pat as you took your Kong, and and then I headed upstairs to the contented sounds of you working out the contents of the Kong. I miss you most in the evening.

I miss you most as I am falling asleep, as my mind, in an unguarded moment, slams against the reality that you are no longer here, as I see your head drooping over the vet's arm as she helped to lift you out of the car, hanging in death in a way it never ever hung in life. I miss you most as I am falling asleep.

I miss you most in the morning when I come downstairs, and you are not there at the bottom of the stairs to greet me. There is no joyful reunion, no happy dance, no leaning up against me for your morning pet, just a breakfast I am not particularly hungry to eat, a breakfast I force myself to eat because breakfast had rituals that involved you. My kefir lasts longer because you are not there to share it. When I take out the blueberries, you're not there to ask for one. You don't come running when my spoon scrapes on the bottom of the yogurt container. It makes me not want to eat blueberries and yogurt. I miss you most in the morning.

I miss you most when I sit down on the couch to put on my boots, and you don't come running to bury your head in my lap so I can scratch your ears. I miss the feel of the soft, soft fur on your ears and the top of your head, and the way you burrowed your head in my lap and groaned in pleasure as I rubbed your ears. There are no twirls of anticipation as you pretend to try to catch your tail but are really just so excited at the thought of walks or road trips or barn adventures. Somehow you knew exactly what was coming by the footwear I put on. I miss you most when I am putting on my boots.

I miss you most in the car and I look into the rear view mirror and do not see your ears sticking up above the seat. I drive past the Starbucks and there is no drama. You aren't there to ask for your own puppachino or to flirt with the people working drive-thru. There is no new nose art, and I cannot bear to wash the old art away. I miss you most when I am driving in the car.

I miss you most when I open the cupboard to get a bandaid and see all of your grooming stuff there and realise I will never again have to clip your nails or brush you or clean out your ears or check you for ticks. I will never again have to doctor a hotspot or give you a pill or an allergy shot. I never did get the spot under your ear healed -- there was still a scab on the day we said goodbye. I had wanted it to be healed. Why did I want that spot to be healed? What difference did it make? But I did, and I miss you when I think about never having to care for you again.

I miss you most when I am working or watching tv or reading a book. You aren't there to shove stinky toys in my lap, or to lay your head in my lap and just look up at me. No more stinky toys shoved alluringly at my hands, no more heavy head in my lap, no more long looks of love, no more pats and hugs and nuzzles and leans and licks and the thousand little ways I had daily physical contact with another living being who loved me freely and was loved in return. I miss you most in those quiet in-between moments.

I don't believe you're "in heaven". I don't believe in rainbow bridges. You are not possessor of a soul created in the image of God, and while I believe there will be dogs on the new earth, I don't believe we will have a reunion. It is goodbye, girl. Not just see you later, not until we meet again, but goodbye. The greatest comfort that I can conjure is that your body will break down and nurture the ground of a place you loved. But believing all that doesn't change my grief. It does not negate the tears I shed. I do not love you less or miss you less because I believe you are just dead and not "in a better place". My life is emptier with you not in it. My heart aches so much sometimes I can hardly catch my breath to breathe. No, believing you are just dead does not make my grief less sharp. I am grieving differently because you were a dog and not a human, but it is legitimate and genuine and right and appropriate that I grieve, and it is real grief. You were a constant presence and a companion. You knew my routines and my moods. You watched me always. You brought joy and love and physical contact into my life. You were my dog, and I loved you dearly.

Oh, my little girl, my good girl, I miss you most.