Tuesday, October 8, 2013
I've cried gallons of tears over him since then, and I know I'm good to cry gallons more. I wish I had a cure for heartbreak.
We still see Cooper everywhere. My heart sinks when I make the curve in our driveway and I don't see his smiling face in the patio door, waiting deliriously for our arrival, his tail quivering with excitement. I still check my watch at 4:30, and think it's food time. Our friends still come in the house, and ask, "Where's...?", their voices trailing off.
We know just how they feel.
His bed is still upstairs, and his collar still hangs at the door. I jiggle it from time to time, as if doing so might conjure him up.
The first night after he died, I dreamed about him, and that he was still with us, but in a parallel, invisible universe. I dreamed I could see a faint outline of him if I concentrated hard enough, sort of like a holograph, but he was there and always would be.
I sleep with his favorite stuffed toy, the same toy he brought me mere hours before he died, leaning in towards me like he always did when he wanted attention. There are nights where I admit that I clutch it more furtively than others.
We sometimes laugh as we recount and remember things he did. Sometimes we wipe a discreet tear out of the corner of our eye. Other times, particularly right now, the tears come fast and furious, and my breath comes in gulps. The pain in my chest is more real than I care to admit.
I try and sit still with the pain, trying to make sense of the senseless. It's a futile attempt, of this I know. All I can do is give thanks for the still December morning he came into our lives. I simply could have driven by him, and life would have been very, very different.
Cooper was the glue that bound everything together, and I'm trying hard to find a way to hold it together without him.
If people are the heart of a home, a dog is most definitely the soul.