Isa's Story

Two years. Two years? Two? So long ago and far away that day and as clear as if it was yesterday. I can instantly summon mental video of almost all of it. I will never lose the image of your body in the vet’s truck. Maybe that’s what a haunting is?

My sweet girl, your memory has faded some, so that makes me think some length of time has indeed passed. The feel of your ears in my fingers has been supplanted with a different set of ears, more immediate. I hate that I can’t remember exactly anymore. I do remember the perfectly straight strip of black down the top of your nose and the scars on the tip from various escapades.

I was looking at old pictures the other day, some from Boise and some from when we lived in the perfect place in Taos and could go play regularly in the river. The other reason it was perfect was I wasn’t working, and we were together most of the time. I had promised you that when we left Boise – I wish it could have lasted longer but human reality is what it is.

I’ve been remembering how, when you were laying on your bed, I’d lay down facing you, propped up on my elbows and you’d put your head under mine and partway under my chest and I’d lay my head on yours. I love that you would cuddle with me like that. I miss that.

I was also remembering in Boise, when Lauren was little (6?), and she got into your crate and had me latch the door. She had your (then favorite) stuffed turkey and you grabbed it though the bars and drug her and the crate all over the room playing tug of war. She thought that was the best game ever. I think you did too.

I know you’re still here with me, keeping an eye on me and how this whole new house thing is progressing. It was more or less your idea, of that I’m quite certain. This was your end game in sending Roxy to me. Because so much has changed for me since this move and continues to change. I am growing and healing on so many levels, I am constantly and consistently astonished. You started the healing when you were in your earth clothes, you learned me love, thoroughly. These are simply my next steps in bettering my humanness.

This past week has been … challenging. I finally figured out that some part of my brain had decided that two years was “enough”: “should” be enough time to grieve and “supposed to be” time to let go. I suspect a corollary to the ever-popular “just a dog.” And I have done nothing all week but physically hurt myself – from a paper cut to slipping and falling on ice to banging my head into a shelf. Clearly that part of my brain is very, very wrong. There is no “should” or “supposed to” – it is what it is and what it will continue to be: heartbreak.

I’m not broken the way I was when you first left, the gaping hole that was the entirety of my chest, utterly hollowed out. There’s still a hole, there always will be. You took a piece of me with you when you left. Inevitable.

I miss you, baby, even as your immediacy fades. I continue to be sorry for all the ways I think I failed you, before you got sick and after. I’m sorry I was not home more, that we didn’t have more adventures together. I utterly failed at being more dog. I haven’t forgiven myself but have stopped beating myself up. Baby steps.

I continue to be thankful you are out of pain. That’s probably the most important piece.

I ran into this Eskimo proverb a little while ago. An idea I will cling to when I look at my star-studded new home. “Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.”

I know you are happy now, having the best time ever rolling in all the horse poop and/or dead things you want without me washing all the wonderful smell off you. That was a drag for both of us, you hated baths and I was often only partially successful in eradicating the stench (IMO).

You’re my heart dog and I will always, always love and miss you.

Run free, my sweet girl. Until we meet again.