“If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then give him only two of them.” —Phil Pastoret
Two weeks ago today I talked a little bit about how I was worried about Indy, my family’s dog, since he seemed sick. Carrying on from that day, he did seem to be getting better, but then on that Sunday morning (June 25th) my parents called me to deliver the heartbreaking news that he passed away the night before. I won’t go into all the details, largely because it’s still kind of raw for me.
Later on that day, I wrote a little something and posted it on my Instagram and Facebook accounts. Not that it would change anything, obviously, but writing is one hundred percent an outlet for me. Which, incidentally, is why I find myself writing this now.
When I wrote that piece, I was pretty much crying through the whole thing. My family has told me they were nice words, though I am honestly surprised I could string something coherent together. I have read it back to myself a couple times since, but it actually took a little before I could do that.
For the past week I’ve been trying to keep myself as busy as possible. I have to keep moving forward, you know? Thankfully, I have some pretty great friends—many of whom offered kind words, one who asked if they could do anything, and even one who travelled to my city from theirs to have dinner in an effort to distract me.
I also spent the weekend with my parents and grandparents, where my mom gave me my keepsake for Indy—the food bowl I made him out of clay. It is my proudest piece and, of course, the one made with the most love. I’ll be honest, I don’t know what I am really going to do with it. I’ve gotten suggestions, including making it a bowl for chocolate because even though he wasn’t supposed to have any—Indy did enjoy chocolate. For now, however, it has a special place on my bookshelf.
I miss him, and would love to have him back happy and healthy. My heart is a little cracked and chipped, bruised you might say, but I’m sure it will repair itself in the future. So while I cannot have him back with me and my family, I will keep the memories.
Like how his whole body would wiggle if his tail moved fast enough.
How he could always sniff out a new latex toy in the house, even without setting eyes on it even once.
How he once ate five out of six bagels in a bag when home alone one evening because we left it a little too close to the edge of the counter.
How he would always start the night out sleeping on my bed with me whenever I was home—largely because I was the only one who would allow that.
He’s still the background on my phone—sometimes it stings to look at his sweet face, but so far I cannot bring myself to change it.
Goodbye, my little man. But even though you’re gone, I love you. Present tense.