Dave

the unbearable loss of a dog

DAVE

There are dog nose smudges on my windshield on the passenger side. I don’t ever want to wash them off. They belonged to Dave, who died last year. Dave, who could see the invisible, and would stare intently at an empty space for minutes without moving. Dave, who woke up every night at three and did a walkabout around the house. Dave whose tongue was a little too big for his mouth to hold comfortably and protruded like the tip of a spoon.  Dave, who dozed off sitting on my lap and lay on top of me in bed every night. My darling Dave.

My dog Sadie had died, and my grandson Joe brought me Dave, who already had his name, which I found hilarious for a dog.  At first he was a welcome distraction, but soon I was in love, as I had been in love with Sadie. There are dogs we love, and then there are dogs we fall in love with. When they die, the purest part of ourselves dies with them, the part that felt unconditional love for another living creature. It’s more complicated with human love. At least for me. Sometimes my own guilt, my regret, mixes in and muddles the water.

Dave had a seizure disorder, and I kept his medicine  on top of the microwave in the kitchen and gave it to him every morning. One Saturday, he started to seize and didn’t stop. The medicine had disappeared from where I always kept it, and five minutes later when I called the vet, the vet was away and the tech told me the closest place for this emergency, because an emergency it had become, was an impossible hour’s drive from here. I held him as his poor body kicked and shook, you’re a good boy, good boy, good boy, good boy Dave. He died in my arms ten minutes later.

After his death, my daughter Catherine gave me a book she had made of photos of Dave. I’ve been afraid to look at them until now.

And that’s all I have words for.