Thursday, September 12, 2019

Nothing could have prepared me for the death of my dog.

Exactly a month ago, I lost my best friend: my dog Bucky. His death caught me at a vulnerable time. I was suffering mentally and emotionally because I had been away from him for almost a month (long story) and he was literally all I could think about. Maybe my heart was telling me that something was wrong. Maybe my broken soul could tell that he was suffering, as well.

Whatever the reason, I had never been so affected by death in my life. I don't really know how to explain it. After all, death was nothing new to me. I dreamt about it almost daily. I had lost many beloved friends and family members to it in the past. However, I had never felt the gut-wrenching pain of losing a dog before. Plus, it happened mere days after I had once again attempted to kill myself.


The downward spiral after his death was even more intense. I'd find myself not being able to sleep; and when I did, I found myself waking up to buckets of tears.

Bucky was such a big part of the last two years of my life and there was nothing I could do to save him. When I had no one to turn to, he was always there. And even though he couldn't talk, his presence alone was enough to make me feel a thousand times better.


Just feeling him lying next to me in the middle of the night - yes, he slept next to me on my bed - was all the comfort I needed to stop myself from crying through the night. And on extremely bad days when I didn't want to be a burden to anyone else, just feeling his fur between my fingers was enough to calm me down.

No one has ever been as happy to see me come home as Bucky was. No one has ever been as loyal as him, as loving as him, as caring as him, and as observant as him. Bucky knew whenever I was sad, coming up to me the minute the tears became just a little bit too much. He knew when I was angry, instantly barking to drown out my anger. And he knew when I was extra tired, even holding in his pee for hours until I was ready to get up and walk him.


Not everybody in my family appreciated Bucky. In fact, he was a reason of my mom's frustration and anger many, many times. But to me, he was practically like one of my children. I always said that Bucky was the best gift I had ever received (an ex of mine gave him to me on Valentine's Day!), and he really was.

Up until the night he died, I talked about him and worried about him more than anything. Before that, I'd cut my nights out short because he was on top of mind.

No matter how little sleep I had, I'd get up to walk him when no one else could. And at the slightest sign of strangeness, I'd be at the vet, where my vet would laugh at me most of the time and tell me that I worry too much for a furmomma. And worry I did. Particularly on every single day that he wasn't with me during his last days on Earth. My heart felt like it was draining every single day he was away, and now it just feels empty.


It has already been a month, but I'm still not feeling any better. I still freeze and tear up whenever I see a dog who looks even remotely similar to my boy. Sometimes, I find myself crying pretty loudly in the middle of the night because I miss him terribly. I always thought Syrena would be a teenager by the time Bucky died. I had this silly dream of building a mini-castle for him in my future garden and filling it with chihuahuas, and he'd be the king of them all. I always imagined he'd leave a mini-Bucky behind for us to love anew. But none of that happened.


This blog post is going to sound incredibly petty if you've never owned and loved a dog. But if you have and if you understand how I feel... may I know how you got over it? Is it even possible to? Please help this ex-furmomma out. :(

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