the beauty of you’re here
I walk out of the kitchen because he isn’t in the corner on his bed. He isn’t outside in his weird spot on the porch waiting to be invited inside. I should be walking towards him now, hoping to hear that deep inhale that kind of sounds like a screech (but not an unpleasant one). I check his couch. The covers are wiped from the scene. He isn’t there sleeping or looking out the window with his arms on the top of the couch watching the world go by. He’s not in the dining room laying on the floor by the chairs with the lights off or waiting for me to do my homework at the table. I start up the stairs and he isn’t on the first landing leaning against one of the steps, strategically situated near everyone. I’m upstairs and he isn’t on my bed. I head to Noah’s room and it’s empty. He’s not in my mom’s room where Gracie is growling at him for walking inside in her obnoxiously territorial way that only she can. I go to my room with a heavy chest. I wait for the signature sound of his nails on the floor nearing my room and then on my closed door. I go back downstairs and check the office, and you’re not under the desk either.
Photo by Zoe Ades ’18
My hands throb because they want to pet his soft, curly white fur. My ears strain to hear the padding of his paws on the wood floor as he trots into the kitchen and over to the back door to go outside. (There was this one corner that every time he would get so excited he’d slip, then keep running.) They ache to hear his breathing. My heart—along with everything else—hurts. I just want to know that he’s ok. I want to know he isn’t alone. I know I’m lucky that I’ve gone sixteen years without experiencing grief and loss, but I feel like I’m on fire. Sometimes, I forget. Just for a split second. Sometimes I feel my heart break all over again. As if I had just pet him for the last time. We brought Tucker home when I was four years old.
No one outside of my family understands this horrible and insane and new addition of space. Our house is empty. Every sound is more noticeable. He was a person, and the sweetest one.
On Friday, it will be four weeks. New Year’s Eve, there were fireworks. I mounted the stairs. I passed the landing where you still weren’t laying. My dread heavy body got to the top and took two slow steps to my room. The door would be open and you would be laying next to my bed—not comfortably—shaking. My head would tilt slightly to the side and I would click my tongue to the roof of my mouth and I would walk towards you with an “aw Tucky” or an “aw baby”. You would look at me with those deep brown-blue eyes of understanding, and I would run my fingers and hands through and over your fur. I would wrap my arms around you and tell you “it’s ok” even though you felt far from it with the explosions popping above our heads. I would kiss your head.
I mounted the stairs. I opened my closed door. I stared at your spot and tried to will you into existence. Gracie has assumed your position on the couch—but not the stairs—and she just barks at everything that goes by. How dare another dog walk by that isn’t you? I would bark too.
[One Year Later] Sometimes I forget. In those happy moments, I can’t wait to see you. I think of something you’d like. Your little stubby tail going wild just at the sight of me. I love you. Most people wouldn’t believe that a dog can smile. But one look at yours and I have one too. I remember you intercepting the ball in every game Noah and/or I would play when we were little. You loved pictures and you were the most handsome model. You would have let me take pictures of you for hours if I wanted. I miss coming home to you. For a while without you, Gracie would leave a space for you when she greeted me at the doorway. When anyone came into the house you’d greet them by immediately rolling onto your back for a belly rub with a huge grin on your face. I miss the teeth marks in the mail from your amazing catches (the mail came through a slot in the front door). I’m sorry for all the paws you burned on the bluestone because you thought we were drowning in the pool. I remember the panic in your voice, the pace in your paws. You learned to swim by trying to save us.
You peed on the carpet in front of my feet when my boyfriend came over. My now ex wasn’t aware of my love affair with my dog. Don’t worry. You’re still my boyfriend Tucky.
Have you ever met a dog that will willingly go into his crate because he thought he was in trouble? I promise. We were just coming over to pet you. What about a dog that doesn’t just bark and gets upset when you leave, but full on howls when you’re gone? (I left a video camera on one time and the footage was depressing) I love you, Tucky.
A medium told me that you’re with my great grandma and my grandma and mom’s dogs. I heard you’re eating chicken. I’m sorry you couldn’t have it that much when you were here.