Into the Quiet

Here I am, two weeks after losing Beasley, the Very Best Dog Ever, and it sure is quiet around here.

I’ve cleared out most of his things — his bed, his leopard-skin fleece, the bag of first aid supplies my daughter Maggie helped put together back when I was preparing for my Chasing Light journey, his meds, the rest of his food, his treats, three hollow bones containing dried remnants of peanut butter, and his favorite squeaky toy.

What remains: his collar and leash; the expectation of his clippy toenails on the wood floor as he circles me, knowing I’ve finished my breakfast and there is a very eggy plate to be licked clean; waking in the middle of the night without a big lumpy dog snoring next to me; the Beasley-shaped hole in my heart and my sadness at how fast it all went at the end.

Yesterday morning, for just a split second I saw him lying on the floor, but that was something my subconscious had handed me, when in fact it was a tan hoodie I’d tossed onto a pile of clothes to be laundered. It felt so natural for him to be there, because it had been him for the past nine years.

But it’s not him anymore. And thus the quiet.

It will get better, I know that. The vet’s office called to say his ashes are ready to be picked up. I’m not ready to get them, though, not just yet. And that’s okay. Baby steps.

The other thing that remains? A mountain of absolute wonder and gratitude that I ever got to give this amazing dog a home, and awe at how willingly he offered me his love and trust and complete devotion.

I did my very best for him. I am having to trust that was enough.

In other news, we’ll be catching up with Blainey Blair in the next week. Shit, as they say, is about to get real.