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.
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.