Is awful. The realization of emptiness hits me square in the chest and the tears just start pouring out.
Where is my fluffy puppy? Where is the little bundle of warmth on my chest?
It's gone. Stone fills the place of warmth, stone that's sits in my chest and crackles with the pain of loss. I made her go away and I put that stone in there.
Her warm brown eyes won't look up at me, she won't settle across my shoulder and under my chin, and I can't put my face on her tiny head. She won't nestle next to me and I won't see her wobble down the street looking for a potty spot. Her things are all picked up and are thrown into the spare room, a bed left out here and there (as she had so many), pieces of her hair locked in a plastic bag. Her medicines, shampoos, treats - out of sight. Herself, out of sight.
It hurts so much to wake up without her, it hurts like breaking stone with a sledgehammer on my chest.
I'm going to build her stone garden over the grave and speckle it with beautfiul flowers. I will build this and weep.
Will this ever end?
I understand that I will not have her bodily presence with me ever again. I do.
I understand that her memories I should keep, and those should keep my heart warm.
But right now that heart is trying to stay a stone, but its hardness is no protection at all, no, it's condensed pain, it's grief, and it hurts.
I miss my fluffy angel, I miss you POOH!
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Dear Shastapooh
Last night in the torrential rain I stood and felt your letting go. I felt you and I felt sad but energized. After I soaked myself I came inside and let the black cat in. He was happy and kept looking around and sniffing. I was sniffing too. I even had my face down on the carpet, where your dishes used to sit and where you have peed, looking for your scent. It was barely there.
Then we watched tv and I went to bed to read and fall asleep around 1030. And sleep I did, through the night, till I had to get up to pee, waking from an eventful silly dream. I didn't want to look at the clock like I used to do, in fear of knowing how early it was and realizing how tired I was, but it wasn't late at all, it was early.
I know this because when I laid back down I got that clamp down on my chest of missing you and feeling your void. I must have woken the cat who knocked something over which made me get up, let him out, and look at the clock. It was 4:53. So I slept so long and hated waking, hated the clenching feeling of emptiness, trying to make myself pick up the silly thread of my earier dream. It didn't come and I was up.
I know you just went to sleep but your warmth, that missing warmth left such cold and heaviness that it hurts, physically hurts!
I miss you my dear pet, I miss your breathing, your softness, your little moans and groans, I miss and miss all of you!
It is good to write...
I'm off to work but after I plan on working on your garden over where your tiny body lays, making a beautiful sanctuary for your memory.
Jason will help and we will make it just like you: magnetic with beauty and life.
You are in the air,
You are everywhere,
You are everywhere.
Then we watched tv and I went to bed to read and fall asleep around 1030. And sleep I did, through the night, till I had to get up to pee, waking from an eventful silly dream. I didn't want to look at the clock like I used to do, in fear of knowing how early it was and realizing how tired I was, but it wasn't late at all, it was early.
I know this because when I laid back down I got that clamp down on my chest of missing you and feeling your void. I must have woken the cat who knocked something over which made me get up, let him out, and look at the clock. It was 4:53. So I slept so long and hated waking, hated the clenching feeling of emptiness, trying to make myself pick up the silly thread of my earier dream. It didn't come and I was up.
I know you just went to sleep but your warmth, that missing warmth left such cold and heaviness that it hurts, physically hurts!
I miss you my dear pet, I miss your breathing, your softness, your little moans and groans, I miss and miss all of you!
It is good to write...
I'm off to work but after I plan on working on your garden over where your tiny body lays, making a beautiful sanctuary for your memory.
Jason will help and we will make it just like you: magnetic with beauty and life.
You are in the air,
You are everywhere,
You are everywhere.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Letting Shasta go
My most painful duty, my most hurtful time of writing, my most horrible life event, my letting go of Shasta.
It was the weekend and she has had a peaceful night, the one before, so I was not filled with sorrow and worry about her tiny, warm existence that has seemed to have taken on a bitter quality when fighting for respite. Relief from the tiny coughs that almost seemed dainty, had I not known they meant her heart was working in futility; relief from the urge to empty her bladder but not wanting because it was painful, doing her endless, wobbly laps in the grass, on the pavement, tripping and swaying as her hind legs gave out and she pulled her tail down tight for protection.
Protection. I could not give. Relief I could not give. Cure that was not.
Countless intervals of comforting, holding, crying, singing softly, stroking her soft hair, cuddling her tiny, fragile, warm body, listening to hopeless whimpers, wanting to make it all go away and just keep the warmth and softness of her precious being.
Then Saturday came and the cycle started again: coughs, pee urges and fruitless circles, cradling her and giving her medication after medication. I kept to this cycle and helplessly followed her every sigh and cough. I gave her anything she wanted to eat, just eat! And she did...
During the night no respite came, just more intervals, going to the backyard for a quick pee, lapping up some water and taking the heart medication so she can lay down and breathe herself to sleep. I nestled her next to me, as always, but anxiously watched and waited for the next episode. All I wanted was rest, both for her and me.
I was worn out for months now, and come Saturday I started thinking about the end. The end to the cyles, intervals, episodes, painful tries and cries, envisioning the whole process of putting her to sleep. I felt disgustingly selfish and guilty, but I still saw the relief at the end. I cried but I stopped myself because I knew I was only preparing for something she would not be part of, the chilling cold and dark her missing presence will leave with me. I stopped because I wanted to be good to her, to cuddle and love and care for her while she was here. I sang the "You are my sunshine, My only sunshine..." song to her every night, sobbing into her soft hair, feeling her little heartbeats ease and her body relax in my arms, the rhythm and resonance of my shrieking pain lulling her to sleep. I felt awful and awful and awful but was so thankful for having her in my arm, across my chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
Sunday came and I watched, heartbroken, frustrated and angry, how she couldn't get better, couldn't get relief, couldn't stop coughing, couldn't go pee-pee, couldn't just enjoy the wind in her face as she always used to do. I set my stone heart to make the call.
I was amazed at how diplomatic and efficient I was tracking down a house call vet and leaving a message requesting euthanasia, that day, if possible! MONSTER! MONSTER I am, I thought.
Monday afternoon she needed more pain medicine and after having taken it she deflated on my chest, as I sleepily held her in place, right over my heart as always, the fan blowing on her nosey. We went to sleep. Blessed afternoon nap. Like we used to do. Her and I on the big red couch, curtains and blinds drawn, fan air whipping, fluffy cover over us, spoon in spoon.
She died on that red couch, in the opposite corner, six o'clock that evening. I went to Wendy's for a double bacon cheese burger and chicken fingers, gave her a bowl of food she inhaled with gusto, drank lots of water and had an unsuccessful pee walk attempt. I held her and held her, the vet was late. My friend was sitting outside with us, her face is full of sorrow and sympathy, the pain of helplessness and knowing. My dear boyfriend was sawing and hammering away, building her tiny box from the pinewood I bought ages ago to build floor-to-wall book shelves. Now they will be her coffin. He layed her pink baby blanket inside and placed her oval pouty bed there too. The vet showed up and Shasta got a sleepy shot with painkiller. So I got to hold her while she went to sleep, the deep unconscious sleep, the unnaturally peaceful sleep. She fell in my arms, all nine pounds of her, as I layed her on her side, ready for the shave and the killer shot.
I can't write another detail about this horrible event that left me with a sizzling stone heart: at times is spews lava sparks that stick to me like melting plastic, or crackling sharp pieces of cutting pebbles that land inside me like projectiles.
We layed her tiny box with her tiny body and her softness and warmth in a hole under the window. She is decomposing as I write. I picture her rigid little body and soft little eyes and I think: YOu MOnster!
As I picked up all her things in the house and built a little shrine on the dining table I thought I could just make up for not having her breathe on my chest anymore. She wouldn't have wanted to go. I couldn't suffer for the both of us anymore.
She is not gone, what I have buried outside is my will to fight and my capacity to sustain the hurt that her care brought. I buried a piece of myself. Shasta, however, is not gone at all. She is the most spoildest, sweetest, stubbornest, daintiest, toughest and adorable little creature I've ever had in my life. And so shall she remain to be. With me forever.
Shasta's soul is in the air,
She's bringing me the rain,
She's bringing me the rain.
It was the weekend and she has had a peaceful night, the one before, so I was not filled with sorrow and worry about her tiny, warm existence that has seemed to have taken on a bitter quality when fighting for respite. Relief from the tiny coughs that almost seemed dainty, had I not known they meant her heart was working in futility; relief from the urge to empty her bladder but not wanting because it was painful, doing her endless, wobbly laps in the grass, on the pavement, tripping and swaying as her hind legs gave out and she pulled her tail down tight for protection.
Protection. I could not give. Relief I could not give. Cure that was not.
Countless intervals of comforting, holding, crying, singing softly, stroking her soft hair, cuddling her tiny, fragile, warm body, listening to hopeless whimpers, wanting to make it all go away and just keep the warmth and softness of her precious being.
Then Saturday came and the cycle started again: coughs, pee urges and fruitless circles, cradling her and giving her medication after medication. I kept to this cycle and helplessly followed her every sigh and cough. I gave her anything she wanted to eat, just eat! And she did...
During the night no respite came, just more intervals, going to the backyard for a quick pee, lapping up some water and taking the heart medication so she can lay down and breathe herself to sleep. I nestled her next to me, as always, but anxiously watched and waited for the next episode. All I wanted was rest, both for her and me.
I was worn out for months now, and come Saturday I started thinking about the end. The end to the cyles, intervals, episodes, painful tries and cries, envisioning the whole process of putting her to sleep. I felt disgustingly selfish and guilty, but I still saw the relief at the end. I cried but I stopped myself because I knew I was only preparing for something she would not be part of, the chilling cold and dark her missing presence will leave with me. I stopped because I wanted to be good to her, to cuddle and love and care for her while she was here. I sang the "You are my sunshine, My only sunshine..." song to her every night, sobbing into her soft hair, feeling her little heartbeats ease and her body relax in my arms, the rhythm and resonance of my shrieking pain lulling her to sleep. I felt awful and awful and awful but was so thankful for having her in my arm, across my chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
Sunday came and I watched, heartbroken, frustrated and angry, how she couldn't get better, couldn't get relief, couldn't stop coughing, couldn't go pee-pee, couldn't just enjoy the wind in her face as she always used to do. I set my stone heart to make the call.
I was amazed at how diplomatic and efficient I was tracking down a house call vet and leaving a message requesting euthanasia, that day, if possible! MONSTER! MONSTER I am, I thought.
Monday afternoon she needed more pain medicine and after having taken it she deflated on my chest, as I sleepily held her in place, right over my heart as always, the fan blowing on her nosey. We went to sleep. Blessed afternoon nap. Like we used to do. Her and I on the big red couch, curtains and blinds drawn, fan air whipping, fluffy cover over us, spoon in spoon.
She died on that red couch, in the opposite corner, six o'clock that evening. I went to Wendy's for a double bacon cheese burger and chicken fingers, gave her a bowl of food she inhaled with gusto, drank lots of water and had an unsuccessful pee walk attempt. I held her and held her, the vet was late. My friend was sitting outside with us, her face is full of sorrow and sympathy, the pain of helplessness and knowing. My dear boyfriend was sawing and hammering away, building her tiny box from the pinewood I bought ages ago to build floor-to-wall book shelves. Now they will be her coffin. He layed her pink baby blanket inside and placed her oval pouty bed there too. The vet showed up and Shasta got a sleepy shot with painkiller. So I got to hold her while she went to sleep, the deep unconscious sleep, the unnaturally peaceful sleep. She fell in my arms, all nine pounds of her, as I layed her on her side, ready for the shave and the killer shot.
I can't write another detail about this horrible event that left me with a sizzling stone heart: at times is spews lava sparks that stick to me like melting plastic, or crackling sharp pieces of cutting pebbles that land inside me like projectiles.
We layed her tiny box with her tiny body and her softness and warmth in a hole under the window. She is decomposing as I write. I picture her rigid little body and soft little eyes and I think: YOu MOnster!
As I picked up all her things in the house and built a little shrine on the dining table I thought I could just make up for not having her breathe on my chest anymore. She wouldn't have wanted to go. I couldn't suffer for the both of us anymore.
She is not gone, what I have buried outside is my will to fight and my capacity to sustain the hurt that her care brought. I buried a piece of myself. Shasta, however, is not gone at all. She is the most spoildest, sweetest, stubbornest, daintiest, toughest and adorable little creature I've ever had in my life. And so shall she remain to be. With me forever.
Shasta's soul is in the air,
She's bringing me the rain,
She's bringing me the rain.
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