life (without sadie) goes on
i only remember the best things about you: how soft your fur was, how sweet you looked while you slept, how big your clouded eyes were. i’ve forgotten everything else and need to remind myself that you were a handful and a half. it makes it harder to live with this decision if i only think about your sweet paws.
i picked up your remains last week. i haven’t been able to write about it till now because it was so unexpectedly difficult. i figured we’d get a cheesy container with your ashes in it. i was in no way prepared for the small cedar chest with your name engraved on it. i couldn’t not look inside at the ashes, how few of them there were. how little of you remains. how 20 pounds of fur and life and restlessness was reduced to something that would fit inside a tiny box.
but what really killed me was the clay plaque with the impression of your foot print. every little bump of your skin. i traced my fingers over it for hours, feeling the last reminder of your physical form. until i couldn’t stand it anymore.
the night before i went to pick up your ashes, i had a dream about you. it was in our old house; i came down the stairs and found you lying on the carpet. for some reason, you let me pet you for a long time (something you would not have done in real life). i awoke suddenly with the conviction that we had made the wrong decision. i cried in the dark until i fell back asleep.
in the bright day, i know we made the right decision. i mean you were 14, for crying out loud. you were going to the bathroom in the house. in front of us. like right after we would sit down for dinner. you weren’t really eating. you must’ve been in constant been, even with the opiates and steroids.
still. i want you back–but only the best parts of you, please. i’m hoping you’ll come back to me in another furry, wriggly way and worm your way into my heart all over again.