Almost three weeks without Mike

I have not cried about you in over a week.

I carried your jingly collar around in my purse for a bit, but now it is in my “Mikey box”.

Last Tuesday, I was at the Y longer than I thought I would be and started to worry about you and then remembered that you were no longer waiting for me.

Your pal came over Friday night.  You did not greet him and beg for cookies from his pocket.

I made soup on Saturday and dropped a carrot.  You did not dive for it.

I took a nap in the afternoon.  I thought how nice it would be if I had my nose in the back of your neck and I could sniff you.

I made an iced coffee and an ice cube slid from the fridge to the floor.   You did not come running like a big nut to grab it.  I picked it up and threw it in the sink to melt.

Nobody, I mean nodoggy has eaten any of my dirty laundry.

The back yard is all clean.  There are no pooper doopers.  The mulch is new and red and cedary.

I threw out your beds.  They were all lumpy from all the washings after your seizures.  I ran all your bowls through the dishwasher and put them in the Mikey box downstairs.   I windexed all your nose smurb off the slider and the front door.   I threw out all the toys you had chewed to smithereens.  I gave a couple that were like new to Boo.  I washed Kong and Orby and put them in the box with the bowls and the collar.  I washed the car blanket.  It is clean and will not smell like you again.

I picked up your ashes and it made me sick to my stomach.  And then I wondered – how could so much dog fit into such a small box.  And I don’t refer to your physical size but your emotional size – the hole in my middle.

But I am feeling better.  I just reread my last blog – 4 Days without Mike.  I no longer feel like I’m wading through an atmosphere as thick as peanut butter.  I can laugh without feeling guilty. I sent an e-mail to the nice lady we met last time we were at the vet – the one from Poodle Rescue.  You never needed anyone to rescue you.  You had me.

ashes

 

 

No Mike – Day 4

From the tap, I fill the Brita pitcher with water.  After it runs through, I pour it into both the Keurig and Mike’s bowl.

After I get out of the shower, I walk back into the bedroom and talk to Mike while I get dressed.

I pick up my coffee cup because if I forget and leave it next to my chair in the living room, Mike will be slurping in it in less than 5 seconds.

When I walk back from the dumpster, Mike barks at me out the door and I threaten to beat him with a stick.

I put a baby gate in the opening at the top of the stairs every night so Mike won’t wander and maybe hurt himself having a seizure.

I leave the slider open so Mike can go in and out 45 times a day without driving me crazy.

I put the small wastebasket in the bathroom under the sink because Mike eats yucky Kleenex.

If Mike doesn’t race me on the stairs, I look up to see if he is already there looking down and waiting for me.

I hear the mailman and immediately give Mike the stink-eye so he won’t bark his fool poodle head off.

I leave the bathroom door open when I pee because Mike will be unhappy if I close him out.

I give Mike phenobarbital every morning and every night.  I’ve been doing that for nearly nine years.

I take Mike with me when I do errands – he has a red and white blanket in the back seat of my car.

Every night when I go to bed, Mike settles in with his head resting on my legs while I read my book.  When I turn out the light, he jumps off and goes to his bed in the corner.

I talk to Mike at least 25 times a day.

Sometimes I sing the song “Wild Thing You Make My Heart Sing” and Mike jumps up and put his front paws on my shoulders and we “dance”.

Mike and I nap together on the couch – our heads on opposite sides.  We share a blankey.

Mike under blankey

I am lonely and sickened.  It is hard to move forward.  I feel like that TV commercial where the guy dives into the swimming pool full of caramel and can hardly move.  I wake up in the morning and lie there for an hour or two and think about Mike.  I’m irritable and distracted.  I think I need to have my head examined.  I feel like I should try to function better, but I really don’t care.  When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t look so good.  I feel guilty if I don’t remember Mike is gone for even one minute.  I wonder if I’ll ever be the same again.  I know I’ll be the same again.  I just don’t know when.