Wednesday, May 17, 2023
Dear V,
I had to bury my dog this morning.
My dad barged into my room, “Bobby.”
“Hmm. Wh-what’s up, Dad?” I responded, disoriented and confused as to why he would wake me up so abruptly. The sun wasn’t even out yet.
“Zoey’s dead.”
I let out a deep sigh. “Shit” was all that came out. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting this, but she was twelve years old and very sick. She couldn’t jump anymore because of her obesity. She couldn’t go outside on her own through the doggy door. She’d wheeze and cough every half-hour and constantly have accidents inside the house. Last Friday, her wheezing and coughing got noticeably worse. “I’ll call the vet today,” my dad said. Later that afternoon he said, “Her appointment is on Wednesday.” I couldn’t help the immediate thought that washed through my brain: she’s not going to make it by then.
I looked at the clock– 6:31 AM. “Can you come and help me pick her up? I don’t want your mom to see anything.”
“Yeah. I’ll be right there.” He closed the door behind him as I sat up to find my shoes. I put them on and stepped out into the hallway that led into the dining room area. I turned to my right, straight ahead, in the living room, I could see my black dachshund laying lifeless just three feet from the backyard door. A memory of when I picked her up just when she was exactly six weeks old flashed before my eyes. I remember going to this woman’s house. She would only breed dachshunds. My dad let me choose which of the three that were left that I wanted. I chose Zoey because she was the smallest of the three, but she still liked to put up a fight. And how when my dad was driving all of us back home and how she was so small that she fit in the palm of my hand. And how on that first night together, she insisted on sleeping with me instead of her own bed. She was so tiny that I thought I would turn over on top of her and suffocate her, but she found a sweet spot when she laid her entire body across my neck. I was surprisingly comfortable and slept soundly with her. My subconscious must have known she was there because I did not move once throughout the night.
“She didn’t even make it to the door,” my dad said with a low monotonous voice. I stayed silent. I didn’t know what to say. She was laying in a pool of her own urine, mouth open, purple tongue glued to the ground, and a pile of stool at the end of her anus which was all I could smell.
My dad and I went into the kitchen to grab a trash bag and slip on some nitrile gloves. As we walked back to the living room, my dad noticed the bedroom light was on in his room. “Hold on to this,” he said as he handed me the trash bag. “I’m going to tell your mother not to come out and leave the dogs in there.” I nodded.
As he got my mom up to speed with what was going on, I took the time to be by Zoey’s side. I caressed her body from head to abdomen and told her that I wished I could’ve been there for her while she took her last breath. It kills me a little inside that we were all asleep while she was dying. “You’re not in pain anymore,” I said, still petting her. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. And I already miss you, but I hope I see you again someday in my dreams.” I choked up a little and held back my tears. “I love you, Zoey.”
My dad walked up to us and put on his gloves. I mimicked his action. He took the bag from me and opened it up and laid it across the ground next to her. “Can you pick her up? I can’t with my bad back.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
I’ve had my fair share of dogs dying in my life, but this was the first one that I witnessed that wasn’t laid to rest by the hands of a veterinarian and stuffed in a box so I wouldn’t see the bodies. No, this one hit different. Picking her up, something so lifeless and such dead weight, made my heart clench. I had to support her neck as I lifted her, urine dripping off her body as I placed her on top of the bag. My dad closed it up, sighed, and asked me to open the back door as he carried her outside.
Walking up to the burial site was like a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s like we both knew where we were going without telling each other because it went without saying that she would be buried next to her siblings. And that’s when all my bottled up emotions hit me like a tidal wave. Not only was I living in this moment, but I was living in two different exact moments from my past: March 26, 2011 and December 10, 2016. It’s hard to explain the exact feeling. It was like living through déjà vu, but only it wasn’t. It’s like I could see myself from outside my body. I watched myself dig a hole for the third time.
My eyes got watery, but I didn’t want to cry in front of my dad. And it wasn’t because I was ashamed to cry or anything, but I thought if I did, then he would and I guess I was just trying to be strong for him. He was closer to her in the end than I was and even in this moment as I write this to you, I have no idea exactly how he’s feeling. As much as I wish that we were closer than what we are, we’re not. We don’t ever ask each other how we’re doing, but that’s something I’m still trying to find the courage to do…
We stopped and laid Zoey down by her soon-to-be gravesite as my dad went into the shed nearby and grabbed a shovel. “I’ve got this. You go inside and clean up.” I nodded in acknowledgment. I had a feeling he just needed his alone time to mourn.
I followed his direction, walked inside my house, and stepped toward the kitchen to grab the cleaning supplies and a fresh pair of gloves. As I walked closer, I could hear my mom going through the cupboards. She turned to me, her face droopier than usual, her eyes puffier than normal. “Pobrecita,” she said.
“Yeah. I know.” I sighed.
I opened the cupboard underneath the sink to find the bleach, but as soon as I opened it, for a moment, I forgot what I was looking for. I ransacked the cupboard and couldn’t find anything worth using.
“Are you looking for the bleach?” My mom asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s right there, honey,” as she pointed to a bottle right in front of me.
“Oh. Thanks.”
I grabbed the bleach and turned around to grab a roll of paper towels and walked hastily back to the scene of the crime before my mom could try to console me which I knew would result in tears.
Once back, I stood there where she once laid, on this pool of urine and stool. I froze and thought to myself, this is the last time I’m ever going to have to pick up one of her accidents.
—
I don’t mean to burden you with my day, V. You see, when tragedy strikes, I push people away. I keep to myself and I pretend like everything is okay even when I’m burning with sorrow on the inside because the last thing I want on a day like today is somebody feeling sorry for me– to pity me and only make me feel better because “Oh. Poor Bobby lost his dog today. What should I do to make him feel better?” I can’t handle that thought. And although I push friends away and I avoid phone calls and text messages, when tragedy strikes, I can’t help but only want to talk to you, to be serenaded by your voice. I can’t help but only want to be with you, to be blessed by your presence. I just can’t help it and I fucking hate it.
I miss you so much V and someday one of us is going to be buried before the other. And if I die before you, I’ll die wondering if you’ll even care if I’m dead, much less go to my funeral. And if you die before me, you’ll die never knowing how much I truly loved you even after everything you put me through. You won’t know what it meant to me that I got to be with you for a short time of my life and yes I was upset for almost five years that you left without saying goodbye, but I don’t hate you for it. I could never hate you. You left the way you did because you thought it was the best for the both of us. And maybe it was, but here I am, six years later still waiting for you, hoping we could go back to being friends instead of the strangers we are now.
It doesn’t get easier… losing a loved one. No matter how many people or animals or things you’ve lost in your life… it just doesn’t ever get easier. And I hate to admit, even after today, you’re still the hardest thing I’ve lost in my entire life and I’m living in a constant battle of letting you go or waiting for you to come back. I never know what to do. Not when it comes to you.
I’m really sorry for all this. I haven’t written to you in a very long time because I am trying my best to get over you, but you still cross my mind every fucking day no matter how much mental effort I use to push you to the back of my brain. If only it were that easy, right? Then I wouldn’t be writing this letter to you and wasting my time on someone who doesn’t even care to read this, much less check up on me to see how I’m doing.
still holding my breath,
bobby
(via letters-from-alex)
