|A Little Bit O' Honey CGC, SDX August 26, 2002--July 22, 2015|
I sat here, staring at my computer for 20 minutes, unable to come up with the next thing to say. I'm a word smith. Words are how I make sense of things. Here I am, lost for words. I'm lost without my dog.
My black cat, Sunshine, is sitting on a chair and looking out the window. I'm glad she is in the bedroom with me. Cats are family, no question about it. However, my relationship with my cats is not the same as the relationship I had with Honey. When my cat jumps up on my bed in the morning, she purrs and purrs, rubs her head on my hands and chin. Is she affectionate because she loves me, or because the food dish is empty? After I fill the bowl, Sunshine eats and disappears. Affection is a coupon exchanged for food.
When Honey jumped on my bed to see me, it was to be with me.
She followed me from room to room, not because she wanted anything. Honey liked being with me. She liked walking beside me, staying beside me. When I was sick, my family had to force her to go outside. As soon as they let her back in the house, Honey jumped on my bed beside me. Nurse Honey. Gentle Honey. Faithful Honey. For 12 years she was with me. Now, I am alone.
Steve still has April. Our weimaraner living with diabetes is still here. I still check her blood sugar (464) and correct her with NovoLog. I wake up in the middle of the night and check her blood sugar (38) and rescue her from the Sugar Reaper. I let her out. I let her in. I put food in her bowl, water in her bowl, insulin needles in the folds of skin between her shoulder blades.
I care for April, but, she isn't our dog. April is Steve's dog. It's Steve she wants when it's time to cuddle with someone. She follows Steve from room to room. April is a great dog, a sweet dog, a funny dog. I love April. She's just not my dog. My dog died.
Steve is on the couch, watching videos on his computer. April is stretched out next to him. I am in the bedroom with the door shut. I have a pillow on my bed where Honey used to sleep. No one is curled up on the pillow. No one is cuddled against me with her chin on my ankle. No one makes little wuffling noises when I open a bag of crackers. It's the silence that reminds me Honey is gone. I never realized how loud silence could be. Or how much it hurts to say goodbye.