To preface this post, I want to say that if you have lost a loved one recently, especially a pet, I wouldn't read any further. While Jack's death was heartbreaking and sudden, it could have been much, much worse, but some people can't handle reading about animals dying or suffering in any way, and I don't want anyone to be re-traumatized or traumatized. I am writing this because 1. it needs to be written, and 2. because like I said on my Facebook post, I do not want to have to keep recounting the details of that day over and over again to everyone. So if you read any further, just know, this won't be fun. I will probably repeat myself. I do not give a shit. I do not give a shit about much right now.
I have put off writing this entry as long as I could. At first I was going to do it over the weekend, but Scott convinced me not to, since I was in such bad shape, and then I wanted to get Jack back so I could have at least have him close.
It's important to note that Jack had been going downhill for awhile before this happened. He wasn't in any sort of pain (that I could discern) because he was still eating like a horse, using the bathroom, sleeping normally, and his tail would still wag when I'd come home. But his eyes were getting bad. He kept running into things. He couldn't sleep in the bed with me anymore because he would try to jump down and hurt himself. He seemed to get more and more confused. Not all the time. He knew who everyone was. But I knew his time was coming sooner rather then later, and I'm not going to lie to anyone-I was in denial of it. In human years, Jack was around 112 years old. He was an amazingly resilient little dog.
I dropped Jack off Tuesday, July 25th, at Sid's after work. Nothing was wrong with him. He ate normally, went outside, didn't seem to be confused at all. He was calm and composed in the car, and fine when I left him with Sid. He loved spending time with his Daddy.
While I was in Houston, Sid did tell me he was a bit worried about him. He wasn't going to the bathroom (no.2) and wasn't eating much, and seemed to be 'locked up'. I was worried, but Sid is good with dogs. He gave Jack a warm bath and it seemed to help. Despite all the fun I was having in Houston, in the back of my head, I was preoccupied with it, but Sid has always taken good care of Jack and I trusted him.
When I came home that Sunday, I toyed with the idea of stopping in LaPlace to get him, but we were exhausted, and I thought he would be okay for one more day over there. You do not know the regret I have over this. It has kept me up at night. Especially since I know other people are probably thinking it too.
On Monday, I had taken it off because I knew I wouldn't be ready to go back to work, and plus, I didn't want to wait all day to get Jack. I woke up, went to Target for a few things. I bought him some bacon treats. I always felt bad for leaving Jack, so when I'd come back home from wherever, I always tried to have good food/snacks for him. I got on the road to LaPlace. Sid was at work, so I used my key.
It was immediately apparent that something was going on with my boy. Usually he comes running, but he was just sitting in the middle of the living room, looking at nothing. His eyes were very gummed up. I had been giving him eye supplements for it, and they had always seemed to work, but you have to give them to him in food. I cleaned out his eyes and put him in the car. He seemed very listless and tired. I rubbed on him while I drove and brought him to Petco to get him some pumpkin. From what Sid had said, it seemed as if he was backed up or nauseous or maybe ate too much of the food Sid gave him, which he loves. Brought him back home and put him in his bed while I fixed him his lunch. Sometimes Jack would come back from Sid's too full and spoiled by the food over there to eat the stuff I would give him, so him not eating immediately was not something out of the norm, and he was tired a lot. I mean, he was sixteen. Usually when he was like this, I'd just let him relax and sleep it off. So I did. He wasn't having trouble breathing and he slept hard. Looking back on it now I know I was in denial. Looking back on it now, I can't believe my ignorance. I know what it means when a dog won't eat, but Jack had always been dramatic. He was a master at faking being sick and if I had taken him to the vet every time he was like that, I'd be living in a box on the street.
As the night went on, my concern grew. Jack got up and wandered around, he seemed confused. He didn't want to eat his food. He drank a little but it came up. I started to think it was an infection because of his eyes. They kept gumming up, no matter how many times I cleaned them out, and I couldn't give him a supplement because he wouldn't eat. I should have brought him then. I will spend the rest of my life chasing these shoulda coulda wouldas, even though it wouldn't have changed the outcome. My aunt, once learning this, tried to warn me it might happen. But Jack wasn't in any respiratory distress. He wasn't crying or whining. I crushed up an aspirin and put it in the pumpkin, then gave it to him orally through a syringe. He kept it down. I put him in his bed and then put the bed on my bed and tried to let him sleep between Scott and I, but he wanted to get down after awhile. He seemed restless.
The turning point came when I took him down to go to the bathroom. Jack loved to go outside. I spent half my damn life carting him up and down those damn stairs. I put him down and he just fell over and laid there like he wanted to go to sleep. I got really scared. That was NOT like Jack. I did not want the infection to spread (what I thought was an infection) and then he started barking out of nowhere, like he was scared, so I grabbed him and put him in the car to go to the emergency vet. I think in my heart, deep down, I knew what was about to happen. Jack had never, not ever, in sixteen years, fallen over like that outside, at least not like that.
Usually when I put Jack in his little box crate, he sits up and enjoys the ride. Not this time. He laid down and I had to keep reaching over and turning on my dome light to make sure he was still breathing. I was scared shitless. Went into MedVet. Nobody else was there. They took him back immediately. They gave me a form to fill out asking if we wanted to do more fluids on him, but it cost $600 and I didn't have that on me at the moment. I opted to talk to the vet. I went into the room and waited for her, but I was a nervous wreck. I was alone. And when the vet came in, I took one look at her face and knew what she was about to tell me.
Jack wasn't acting appropriately. He was not oriented to time and place. He was barking in a very crazed manner. There was nothing wrong with his insides, she said. They had done an ultrasound. He didn't have cancer and was not injured. But nothing they could do would fix him, whether I had the $600 or not. It was simply his time.
And I disintegrated.
She said she'd give me time with him to decide. She left. I called Sid, who told me he knew it was coming, he just didn't want to tell me. As much as I didn't want it to be true, Jack was not Jack anymore. Whatever had happened between Saturday/Sunday night (later, we surmised it must have been a seizure or a stroke) had taken my little man's senses and he was probably confused and scared. I could not bring myself to let my boy live that way. I knew if I took him home and let him suffer, I'd never forgive myself, but if I put him to sleep, I'd never forgive myself either, even though it was the right thing to do. They brought him back in. He was wrapped in a blanket and had an IV. He was very calm in my arms, despite my crying, but his eyes were blank. I think he knew it was me because of my smell. Before I had brought him to the vet, the only time he had done that barking thing is when I left the room, or when the vet took him back. I called my Mom. She said she would come, even though it was 1:30 in the morning. The vet came back in and I told her I would let him go. I asked for information on cremation, because there was no way I was not bringing my boy home with me. It had always been part of the plan. I was also upset because I had bought a paw press pad a long time ago and it was at home, but I wasn't thinking very clearly.
They moved me into a 'Comfort Room' with a couch. Jack stayed docile and calm. I hugged, kissed, and petted him and told him how sorry I was and how much I loved him. They had information about cremation in the room and I was relieved to see they would press his paw for me. I was scared to death I wouldn't have enough money to do it. The vet assistant came in and asked me what I wanted to do. It was confusing how they explained the costs, I was so messed up, I couldn't get it straight in my head. Mom showed up. Thank God, because I couldn't have done it alone. Sid couldn't come because he couldn't get to me at that time. I didn't want to put Scott through it because he and his Mom had lost their dog recently, and that's where it had happened. He did offer to come, though. Several times.
I cried with Mom and she cried too and I was trying my damndest to not freak out because I didn't want Jack to be upset, but I wasn't holding it together very well. He was always a very anxious little dog (because I am an anxious wreck of a human being most of the time) and I didn't want him to be worried or scared about me. When Mom got there, he got a bit restless. He tried to sit up and moved his little head to my shoulder. And when he did, he whimpered. Just a little. And when I tell you it destroyed me, it does not do the expression justice. It felt like he was asking me if it was okay to go, and though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I could not deny my boy that. He had given me everything in sixteen years. I wasn't going to deny him peace any more than I already had.
Thankfully, I was able to pay the money to 'hold' him there until I got paid and could put the rest down for his services. Mom helped out. While she went to go run my cards at the front desk, I gathered Jack up to me and told him how much of a good boy he was. How much comfort he had given me over sixteen years. How intensely I loved him and always would, and how sorry I was for all the times I was impatient or failed him. But mostly, how sorry I was. Mom came back in. I had to go to the bathroom. I gave him to her. When I came back in, he was restless and upset, but when I took him back, he calmed down. Mom told me we shouldn't drag it out anymore, and as much as my soul rebelled against it, I did not want him to cry like that again. I got up to go tell the vet it was time, but she came in just as I approached the door.
I had never been present in the room while a dog was put to sleep. I had never had good luck with pets, so they rarely met their end in a vet's office. Over the past sixteen years, I always wondered how I would be able to stand it, sitting in a room and watching my dog pass away, but now I can't imagine not being in there with him. I am glad it wasn't an exam room, that would have been too cold. The vet kneeled in front of me and told me that she would give him a strong sedative. He wouldn't know what was going on. She said he might twitch and his eyes might stay open. At this point, Jack was completely out of it. His eyes were open but he was limp in my arms. She shot the sedative. All I could say was "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" over and over again. I regret crying like that. She gave him whatever it was that made it happen. It took less than a minute, barely even that. She listened for his heart and told me he was gone.
And just like that, it was over. Sixteen years, and my best friend was gone.
They told me I could stay for as long as I wanted. Mom held me and I held him and he was so little and lifeless. I had to cover up his face. It took everything I had to hand my boy over to the vet tech for the last time. I've never left Jack in a place like that overnight. Even when he had his teeth out, he never stayed the night, and if I went somewhere, he stayed with a family member or Sid. The hatred I had for myself leaving my boy there, even though I had no choice, well, I won't tell you the strength of it. On the way home my stomach was murdering me and it was a miracle I didn't kill anyone or get pulled over.
When I got home, I was sick until almost 4am, then finally laid down with Scott, who comforted me as much as he could. I managed to get a little sleep, but I had to go to work. I had taken off enough time to go on vacation. I don't know how I managed to work or get anything done. I sobbed the whole day. Loathed myself. Pictured him lying alone and cold somewhere. Kept looking over the side of my bed, expecting to see him lying there. Couldn't go in the kitchen to see his little food bowl, still with his special food in it. Couldn't go near my desk, because his Chewie bed was there and I couldn't even think about working there without my little work buddy. I don't know how I managed to get through that day. Scott was great to me and my family kept checking on me, but the inside of my chest felt like a bomb had gone off in it. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. Ever.
All my regrets and failures were front and center in my head. Not the good memories, because those hurt too much. All I could think about was the times I had lost my temper with him, or was impatient, or frustrated. The fact that I had actually gone to Houston and was eating good food and laughing and head banging at a concert when my boy was suffering, I wanted to scratch my own eyes out. For not wanting to believe something was actually wrong. Scott kept on trying to tell me that being impatient and sometimes losing your temper was part of being a dog owner, and God knows I loved Jack, but he knew how to press my buttons sometimes. I wasn't going to let myself off the hook. To top it off, Jack died a day before Sid's birthday, so that sucked even worse. It felt like I had abandoned Jack. Still feels that way. Still hate myself for going on vacation, though I had no idea when I dropped him off Tuesday that I would come back to this. Felt like shit for saddling Sid with it. You name it, I feel bad for it. Maybe it's martyring behavior, but I am only human. I know these feelings are my own to come to terms with, and while everyone has gone out of their way to assure me I'm not a monster, nothing will ease my pain but time.
The boys went home Tuesday. When they left, I grabbed his bed and slept with it. I limped through the week. The only time I felt some comfort was when I woke up. That was the only time I felt like Jack was close. As the days would wear on, it would get worse and worse. I can't drink anymore, but God I wanted to drink. I worked. Managed to pick up some things. His little blanket still smelled like him. I slept (sleep) with it and took it everywhere. Nanny and Autum came over on Wednesday. I paid off his services, which made me feel a little better. I made myself get out of bed, made myself try to assemble a Lego set I had bought the morning I went to get him. It helped to take my mind off of it because I suck at assembling things. They brought me raspberries and a card and hugs and reassurances, but all I wanted to do was consume Ativan and sleep. And that's what I did. I barely left my bedroom and if I went into my kitchen I didn't look at the spot where his food bowl was. I gave the remainder of his food and other things to my parents for Demi. Put his things in his little drawer. Put his beds in the closet. His food mat is still on the ground. I'm not sure what will make me feel worse-seeing it there, or not. I didn't want to leave the apartment to even throw out my trash because I kept seeing him sniffing around the yard, and trying to convince myself he was 'just at Sid's' wasn't working. The apartment is too quiet. It's like a tomb.
By Thursday I was legitimately close to losing my grip and was afraid of what I'd do, so I contacted Brittany and got a room for the weekend at her hotel. I was able to check in early Friday morning, so I worked from there. It helped a little, not being at home. Heaven's Pets didn't pick him up till Friday and they didn't call me until almost 4:30 that day to confirm services because they were having phone issues. I asked the girl (who was sweet) to blow my boy a kiss for me. She said she would. I just laid in bed with his blanket and numbly watched TV. Took a lot of baths. Cried a lot. Tried to be easier on myself. I made myself finish my vacation blog. I wanted to write this while I was there because I was scared of doing it at home, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I did something worse. I tried to order a CuddleClone (which is a stuffed animal you can buy to customize to look like your pet) and I had to look at pictures of him, which I had not been able to do at all. I couldn't look at dogs at all. Not on TV, not on social media. It split me apart, but I got it done. His blanket was a comfort, but it was losing his scent. I tried to watch some Family Guy, but every time I laughed, it felt like a betrayal. When I'm anxious or depressed, my go to is usually to read. I couldn't even do that. It felt wrong to not concentrate on anything but Jack. My stomach was also killing me and I was afraid to eat.
By Friday night I was so depressed and lonely that I couldn't stand it anymore. I called Scott. He came. Stacie came by and hugged me. Sid came and we went swimming and went to eat at Buffalo Wild Wings. The whole time, I'm trying to stay present, but there's a hole in my heart. I was suffused with dread at the thought of having to go back home. Home, which didn't feel like home anymore. It was just a place where Jack was around every corner, but he wasn't following me like my little shadow anymore.
On Sunday, instead of going home, I said goodbye to Scott (and Brittany) and went to my Mom's. Nanny and Autum came over and we watched some movies and I ate, but I kept putting it off and putting it off and I knew if I kept doing it, it was just going to get harder, so I bit the bullet.
I fell apart the second I got out of my car.
The self flagellation is still happening, though I am trying to remember the good things. It happens in a flash, the memory of something I did or didn't do and how much I would pay to go back and fix it, and I'm apologizing to him all over again. The memory of his body in my arms when I said goodbye. I've been feeling that ever since he died. The anxiety over him being somewhere and not knowing if he was still whole or not. Me trying not to think about how he would be coming back to me. My anxiety telling me something would happen and I wouldn't get my boy back. As much as I wanted him home with me, part of me was dreading that call. I didn't want to go back to Medvet at all, but they were the most logical choice, since they were open 24/7 and I needed Sid to go with me, because I couldn't go back alone, and plus, he deserved to bring our boy back, since he wasn't with us when Jack died.
On Monday, I got off of work, popped my gabapentin, and was dozing when I got the call from Medvet. I called Sid. He left immediately. We went to get our boy. It wasn't easy walking in there and it was damn sure not easy to reach in that white bag and pull out that tiny wooden box. In addition to the box (which will not be his final home, I will be getting a better urn soon) I got a lock of his hair, his nose and paw print (which will be my next tattoo) a little clay press of his paw, and customized poems for him. I also got his death certificate. He was privately cremated, which made me feel much better. Sid and I reminisced and cried about him. It was a bit easier to remember him, and when we got back here I was able to look at some pictures, but I can't do it for long. This box has barely left my side. I slept with it last night. I carry it with me if I take a bath. I bought a bracelet off Amazon that will let me put some of his ashes in it and I can wear it everywhere. My boy can finally go with me wherever I go, which is a relief, because I loathed leaving him anytime I went somewhere. Even when I needed a break or I felt too bad to take care of Jack and would give him to Sid for a weekend, I always missed him. And in the back of my head, when he was with Sid, I'd keep thinking, 'One day, he won't be here for real. You'd better get ready.' To imagine it made my blood run cold.
Everyone says time will heal this wound. That I won't feel like I'm suffocating under this ten thousand pound weight of regret and hatred toward myself. That I will remember the good moments, and forgive myself for the bad. But I can't see it that way right now.
I do not have a good relationship with God. While I believe in an afterlife and that there is something up there, my opinion (especially of the last two years of having serious health issues) is that he (or whatever) is like a kid with a magnifying glass, and we are the ants. So me asking God for peace of mind, at least, in my opinion, was useless. I've begged for that for two years and he doesn't seem to give a damn. So I've been asking my people (and dogs) up there to keep an eye on my boy for me. To give him cuddles and feed him bacon and chicken and roll his ball around for him. I had no peace after he died. It was hard for me to imagine Jack frolicking across a rainbow bridge or across a grassy field. I wanted a sign that he was still here. I wanted to dream of him. I wanted to have his ghost come around the corner and bark at me to get my ass out of the tub. Despite all the comfort I was getting from everyone (which is very treasured and appreciated, don't get me wrong) I felt, and feel, so alone. I know that Jack is no longer confused or sick. I know that he went peacefully, as peacefully as a dog can go, especially after sixteen years. I am grateful for the time I had with him, but like most greedy humans, it's never enough. I think that if I wouldn't have brought him to Medvet, he would have died in the night, and that I could have never borne. One of my greatest fears was waking up and finding him like I found Moo years ago, or me coming home and him being lifeless in his cage. I am grateful that he did not die while I was in Houston. I am lucky that he held on for me. My dog held on for me. If he did have a stroke or a seizure, he was still present enough to know that I was coming back for him, because I always did. I always wondered if he knew that, because I hated having to leave him in that cage (a necessary evil, because he would have gotten me evicted otherwise) and even if I was gone for twenty minutes, I'd come back and he'd be barking his damn head off. I'd always say, "Jesus, Jack, you act like I'm never coming back." But he knew. And he waited. And that knowledge should comfort me, but it mostly makes me feel worse, and the fact that it makes me feel worse and not as lucky as I should makes me feel even shittier.
He held on through that weekend, but by the time I got to him, he just gave up because he couldn't do it anymore. He knew it was me, which meant Jack was still in there Monday morning, and some part of him was still there up until he passed, because he was calm and peaceful in my arms, and that is a beautiful and rare thing. He felt safe with me enough to let go. I love him so goddamn much for that. And in time I want to stop being so full of remorse and concentrate on the luck I did have, because it could have been so much worse, and my boy did not deserve to go down in a horrible way. No dog does. Considering my luck with animals in the past, and the fact that I sometimes could barely take care of my own crazy, drunk, wild ass, keeping him alive (though at times I thought he was trying to do himself in) was always paramount.
So, Jack. Jack Attack. Jack A Roni & Cheese. My Jackie boy. My gay little butler, my little man. My boy.
When I got that call sixteen years ago that you were old enough to bring home, I called my Mom and left my stupid job early. At the time, my reasoning behind getting you was because I was going through a break-up with one boy and being emotionally whiplashed by another. I remember that I had been crying in the car before we got to Abita Springs, so in the first picture of you and I, my eyes are red and wet, but I am smiling. After you died, it occurred to me that my Mom was with me when I got you and with me when you left me. It's fitting, I suppose. We all need our Moms at our worst and best.
You were a tiny little teddy bear that fit in one hand and you didn't cry the whole way home. You just laid against my shoulder. You were so cute that it was sickening. In the past, I had always picked the runt of the litter because I had a soft spot for them, and probably why they never lasted too long. With you, I made sure I picked the strongest of the lot. Your breeder would email me pictures of you and she told me you were first of your litter to get up and start exploring. She called you fearless. Your brother was named Tobi. It was funny, years later, when you would get another brother named Tobi (Sid's dog). Funny how life works that way.
From the very start you followed me around everywhere I went. You didn't walk, you bounced, like a bunny. You never cried for your real Mom. When I agonized over that stupid boy, you were always there. You slept with me every night without fail. You used to lie on my chest and I'd just pet you for hours. You were never much of a kissy kind of dog, you would only lick my face when I'd come home from somewhere, which was fine, because the rarer the kiss was, the more I treasured it. And everyone loved you. You were such a good boy. A smart boy. You didn't know you were five pounds. You thought you were a pit bull. But always sweet. Always loyal. Always there. And at one point, the only way to my heart. Which after awhile, was a good thing, because I had bad luck with guys, but you were my best little guy.
When I met Sid, that's how he won my trust, because he won you over. You ate kibble out of his hand, something you didn't do for anyone. And you didn't like boys at all. In the sixteen years I had you, you only really loved two men, and that was Sid and my Dad. The rest you tolerated. You were okay with girls, but I always thought it was funny how how you knew to guard me against boys. Maybe it was jealousy. I don't know, but you were fiercely overprotective. You weighed less than a mouse fart, but I never feared sleeping anywhere with only you as company, because you had ears like a bat and you'd never let anyone hurt me, or at least give them a hell of a good fight.
Over the years, we went through hell and back together. Moved countless times. Hurricanes. The nightmare of 2012, which nearly did Sid and I in. When Moo died, you stuck by Sid's side like a burr until he emerged from his mourning and got Optimus, who you sniffed for two seconds and ignored for the most part. You weren't a dog's dog. You had no interest in them, but that didn't stop you from hovering anxiously when we'd give Op a bath. And when Sid and I split and I came to live at Sunlake, terrified of being on my own for the first time and unsure of the future, you didn't miss a beat. You kept me from being too lonely. You made this home. And such was our love for you that Sid and I managed to stay close friends and and share custody of you. He was, is, and shall always be your Dad.
After spending so many years together, we rubbed off on each other. You could be a haughty, standoffish little thing, and while you might not have been a 'clingy' dog, you made up for that for by always sticking close. You were more cat than dog sometimes, like a prissy drag queen. You didn't even like to step in rain puddles.
When Ida came blowing through, you sat upright in the front seat of my car for six straight hours, through almost the entire hellish drive, ears pricked up, fighting sleep, because you could feel how anxious and upset I was. I think that was some of the worst anxiety I've ever had, but having you safe there with me was a balm to my heart. You were always so attuned to me, which meant you were a nervous little spaz of a creature, but at least we were nervous spazzes together.
You were a tough little bastard, too. You were never neutered, which causes a lot of problems with male dogs. You never made a fuss about getting a shot. Even when you got your teeth taken out, you were back at your Dad's trying to eat hard kibble the next week. You did not give a crap. You wanted what you wanted and you didn't care how difficult it was. Impatient, too. When it was time for bed, you'd just stare at me and pace until I got up from whatever I was doing. If I spent too long in the bathtub, you'd come and stare at me over the edge of the tub until I felt guilty enough to get out. If I left you on my bed (before you had balance issues) you'd get pissed if I went to the kitchen without you. You were a contemptuous little shit too. You used to give me (and Sid) so many withering 'you're a dumbass' looks when we were acting stupid. Always on my heels. Always. I must have nearly broken my neck a billion times almost tripping over you. It drove me nuts sometimes, but what wouldn't I give now to turn around and find you there?
A million different ways you loved me. Waking me up with that scratchy bark until I picked you up and cuddled with you before work. When you'd put your little head in my armpit while I read, and your breath against my arm would make me smile, and your warmth and trust in me was the best medicine anyone could ever have, especially after the last two years, when lying in bed was sometimes all I could do. The best work buddy, especially after Covid. When you'd be in my lap in the car and press your little head against my chest, your version of a hug. The smell of your head. The happiness I felt when I'd roll over in the morning and see you still sleeping there. Your paw on my leg, my arm. The way you growled when we'd be playing with your ball and you'd try to bite it with no teeth and get all pissed off at yourself. That loud, demanding RUFF, a bark three times bigger than you, when you were demanding attention from me. Your spinning in excitement when I'd come home. When you used to sit up on your hind legs and beg (I don't know where you learned that, because I never taught you) and the look in your eyes when you used to gaze up at me. A million ways you loved me, and I don't deserve any of them. Even on our best days, as the best versions of ourselves, we do not deserve dogs. I don't know what I ever did to earn the love and trust of a creature like you, but I wish I could do it over and over again. I wish I could turn back time and give you more years. I wish so many things, buddy, and I'm so sorry for all times I got angry at you, and I hope you forgive me, but you always did. Everyone says that I was a great Mom, but right now all I see is the times when I could have been a better one. They say you wouldn't have followed me so blindly like you did if you did not love and forgive me, and I know that they are right. I just wish I felt more deserving of it. I am ashamed of so much. If anything, losing you made me want to be a better person, a more patient person, because I can't stand the idea of the next 80 years if it means I can't be with you again. And if I do manage to make it there, I will make it all up to you.
Everyone says the only way to ease this suffering is to eventually get another dog, but I can't bear the idea of it and I'm tired of people saying it, even though I know they mean well and wherever you are, you do not want me sad, or lonely. I have seen more dogs since I've lost you then I can ever remember seeing. On TV, on social media, out in the world. Some of the loss websites say it's a way your dog is trying to reach out to you. Even though it hurts, and even though I can't interact with them right now, if it is you, thank you.
I want you to know that it's okay you went. I didn't say that enough while you were going, but it was okay that you went, buddy. You did your job so fucking well. Taking care of you, having responsibility for you, being worried of what would happen to you if something happened to me, was sometimes the only thing that kept me here, especially since I've been feeling so bad. You saved me so many times. You don't know how many times I wished I had three wishes so that you could talk (probably with an English accent) and understand me, and I could tell you that.
So in closing:
I love you and I will never, ever stop loving you. I will never forget you. You will always be on my bed side table, on my wrist, in my heart, in my soul. I don't want you to worry about me. I'm a wreck right now but if your stubborn little ass could make it sixteen years and not complain, I can do it too, no matter how badly I want to join you right now. I have always been scared of death, but now I'm not so freaked out, because I know if I play my cards right, I will get to hang out with you again.
Be good, my little pirate dog, my teddy bear, my Jacky boy. You were the best thing heartbreak ever gave me.
Mom
You're falling back to me
You're a star that I can see, yeah
I know you're out there
Somewhere out there
You're falling out of reach
Defying gravity, yeah
I know you're out there
Somewhere out there.
"Somewhere Out There', Our Lady Peace