today

It is quiet here this morning. Too quiet. Dooley isn't barking at the window as the neighborhood walkers pass, or sassing me for his breakfast. He's not scratching at the carpet in a futile attempt to create a nest in which to lie a few feet away from my chair. He isn't sighing as he settles into position to keep me company. He won't greet me when I get out of the shower, or jump into my lap when I am in my reading chair. Perhaps worst of all is that he won't greet me when I come home. He won't do anything anymore. It's unbearable.

I am trying to focus on things that need to get done, appreciate the beautiful spring day outside my window, and tend to Juliet and Rigel. But I am confronted by reminders of Dooley everywhere: his dish, his food, the places where he liked to curl up for a nap... even the fact that I can now throw my used kleenex into the wastebasket without worrying about him snatching it out (he couldn't resist used kleenex). It will take time for these reminders to lose their edge, and there is some comfort in knowing that that day will come. But today I ache and the tears flow. Today I feel empty.

I know the intensity of this loss will subside, and I am grateful for that knowledge. I have survived other losses, and will survive this one. All in due time. Just not today.