Dearest Buddy,

 

Today is the first day of life without you. Today, I woke up and you were not there with me. Today, Lucky strolled around the house and from one end of the porch to the other sniffing the spots where you lay just yesterday, awaiting your final goodbye.Today, I didn't have to give you give you a bunch of pills or feel sorry for you as you lumbered outside just to go for that first morning pee. Today, you're free of pain, walking like you did when the world was new and both of us were a lot younger. Today was the first time in 15 years I realized I would never see your smiling face or feel your sweet sweet puppy kisses this side of heaven. Today, I felt like a 7 year old boy. But I'm not seven. Today, I'm a 45-year-old man grieving the loss of a dog I'd had for 1/3 of my existence on this planet.

 

Yesterday, after you'd taken your final breaths, I posted the following to Facebook: "When a dog has no collar, you go out and buy him one. When a collar no longer has a dog, it's not nearly as simple."

 

And it's not simple at all.

 

I've never had a dog that wasn't sweet and/or protective of me. I've never had a dog with which I could not bond on some level. But you were something extra. The inexplicable bond we forged through the last 15 years is unlike some bonds I've known with humans. You were there when my granny died in 2009, and again when I lost my home and my second wife left me just month or two after that. You were there for me in 2010, when I lost my second grandmother and again in 2015 when my last grandpa went home to be with God. You were there for me the day we moved into this house. I've only ever known this home with you in it. You even welcomed Lucky when we found him under the porch. A little 2.2 lb scared baby became your shadow -- at times, an unwelcome one, I think -- even as he grew into a 150 lb annoyance. Your patience and persistence has rubbed off on him. You'd be proud of how he has handled your loss. He's being a brave brave boy for Daddy as I'm trying to be strong for him and the cats.

 

I don't really know what the cats think of your absence to be honest. You know Emmitt. Mr. Crabby Pants is still Mr. Crabby Pants, seemingly oblivious to anyone that isn't him. Oscar is a bit more clingy than usual, but you know he likes to sleep on my chair anyway, so most people would hardly notice. I didn't really notice til he followed me to the bathroom. If it's not morning, he doesn't do that. He sure has today. And it's not just that. But it's subtle things. He's far more vocal that normal. Maybe he's looking for you? Calling out to you? Come out! Come out! wherever you are!

 

I want to honor your memory somehow. I don't know how yet. I just know you were the best dog a man could have had. My world was made better for having you in it. You were never a loud dog. You were content to nap the day away, if that's what Daddy wanted to do. So, why is it that the silence of your absence truly IS deafening?

 

I promised you that I would have another dog in our home again... and I will. But it will be a while, Buddy. I need it to be you. And it won't be you. Until the grief passes, I won't be any good for another dog. But I will give a home to another puppy. And, like Lucky, he won't be you. He or she will be their own dog. But, if the movies can be believed, I truly hope that maybe a bit of your spirit will live on in any future dog I may have. If you come back, find me. Find your way home. If you don't come back, just rest easy. I'll see you in Heaven. Because it won't be Heaven without you, Pup.

 

I love you,

 

Daddy