Imogen

At 16, not living with my dad anymore, I found a 6ish month old puppy at the SPCA. I made her mine by way of my mom. My mom says she is her dog, but she isn’t. We are her humans. We had a feisty Queensland with a gorgeous grin and two cats we found. Imogen, Fuglee, and Bartleby. And an aunt Lori.

May 27, 2010 my mom had to say goodbye to her bottle fed Fuglee kitty due to a severe poisoning (she was partly an outdoor cat and got into something.) it happened so fast.

April 27, 2011 Bartleby, my boy. My precious and perfect kitty was put to sleep after a 9 month battle with pancreatic issues. He was 11. I prolonged his life selfishly because I could not lose him. I wasn’t ready for him to be a shadow. A memory. I was tired of pieces of my heart fragmenting in gut wrenching explosions. And Vampi (my other cat) dying so tragically only a couple years prior, Fuglee still a fresh wound, and a loss of a very important person in my life still not healed. I regret the time I took to give him what he needed; to be selfless and logical.

The first dog after 8 years–since our family dog Mindy died–is slipping away right in front of me and there’s nothing I can do. For 13 years, she (and Bart,11years, and Vampi, 7years) saw me through so much pain, so much joy.

So much.

With Bart it felt like I was watching my heart leave my chest–logically I know that’s not accurate, but logic doesn’t have hold in a time like this. With Imogen it is no easier. It is like the closing of a book. The closing of so much.

So much.

I watch her and can only wait. September 11th, 2013 at 10:15 AM. 13 hours. 13. My aunt Lori died September 13th. Lori helped name Fuglee. She lived with us when we had her. Bart. Imogen. Vampi. Imogen is the last. It hurts.

So much.

I know she doesn’t know what I mean when I tell her I love her and I’m sorry she is swimming in ammonia and that I wish I could help her. I know she doesn’t understand why I cannot stop touching her. Why I watch her. Breath. Breath. . . . . Breath. And I sigh a relief but also a lost hope. But I do it. I can’t not. There’s so much left to give her and not enough time. So much I wish she could understand. So much I wish Bart could have understood. Lori understood.

So much “I wish”. So much “I’m sorry”.

Whether she or any of my children loved me doesn’t matter. I love(d) them. I love(d) them until it literally hurt.

I worry about Grissom. In 13 hours she won’t be coming home. For about 11 years she’s been his sister. He can’t even stand being left in the house without her. Another room without her. I don’t even think he realizes she hurts.

She won’t eat. She gets fluids under her skin to help with some of the discomfort.

I should have–

She’s a crotchety old lady around other dogs. She’s protective of her humans, her dog Grissom. She was smart and selective with how smart she wanted to act. She is still laying in front of me and I already refer to her as if she is gone.

Breath. Breath. . . Breath.

She is.

She IS my dog. I AM her human.

I miss her already. I miss her and she is here and she is mine and she is breathing. I wish she would stop breathing.

13 years. In 13 hours all she will be is 13 years.

She won’t lick my proverbial wounds. She won’t boop my nose with hers during our staring contests. She won’t grin. Her gorgeous grin. She won’t follow me outside and lay there while I write things no one else will read–even when she can hardly stand, hardly walk, she follows me.

I wish I believed in an afterlife. I wish I believed that she would be joining Vampi, Fuglee, and Bart. That she would meet Mindy and they could keep the cats in line. I wish I believed they’d all be waiting for me.

I wish.

She likes graham crackers and pokes her head around the wall to see what I’m doing. Im trying to find something she will eat. Graham crackers. I’d give her the whole box if I knew she wouldn’t throw it up. I don’t want her to go through the stress of that anymore. Graham crackers. Her ears are forward and she looks at me like she has always looked at me. Like she won’t look at me again in 13 hours.

I hope she was happy and I hope she knows how much she means to me. It will never be the same. I know from experience. Never the same.

12 and a half hours.

At 10:30, September 11, 2013 the book closed. I laid on the floor, her paws and head on my arm. Before the sedative she booped my nose and licked my tears. Then she just laid there. She went fast. She was ready to go. Now I have a collar that says “rescued” with her human information and her name on a pink bone. It will sleep on a hook, no more neck to go around.

Advertisements

~ by ashleebones on September 11, 2013.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: