The Best I Ever Had

      Comments Off on The Best I Ever Had

I feel like I have a hole in my soul. She was an independent thinker, a sleeper-inner, a kitty lover, and a lovey-dover unlike any other. She was the best fit for our family I could have ever imagined possible, and I miss her terribly.

0 thoughts on “The Best I Ever Had

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      This is so strange for me, this uncontrollable miasma of emotion. I am taken aback by the intensity of my grief; it’s as though I’m standing outside of myself, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Crying jags are so not ME.

      It’s not that I don’t normally have feelings, but rather that I normally process them quickly and demonstrate them rarely. (I am the queen of compartmentalization.) This is also not the first time I’ve said good-bye to a furry creature I’ve loved. Yet this is somehow… Different. More. It’s *physically* painful.

      There was such a sense of release in letting go, that I know ~ 100%, without a shadow of a doubt ~ that we did the right thing. I know she’s at peace. So why am *I* not?

      One of the common phrases used to describe feelings of grief is the oceanic descriptive: “a wave of sadness” and other such watery expressions. For me, it’s as though I’ve been hit by a tsunami. And I seem to be forever standing on the beach when the tidal wave comes. Not even time to expel a breath before the pain in my chest begins and the tears leave me gasping, trying to come up for air.

      We went out to dinner the other night, and on the way home, the tsunami hit. BOOM! Drowning…

      Prior to this week, my husband has seen me cry less than ten times in our ten years together, so he’s as shocked ~ and unnerved ~ by my new affinity for wailing as I am. All I could manage in explanation was, “I miss my puppy.”

      I had been thinking about how long we’d been gone. We always tried to make sure she was never alone for very long, especially over this past year as her health declined. I thought, “Well, we timed that just right. By the time we get home, it’ll have been about three hours. She’ll be wanting a walk…”


      She’s not at home, waiting for us to arrive and take her for a walk.

      No more walks.

      3… 2… 1…


      When I’d gathered myself, I explained the stream of consciousness that caused the acute crying, and the Mister then said one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever heard. “She always loved her walks,” he said. “And now she’s on a permanent walk. In heaven.”

      So I think about that when I feel sad, and it brings a smile to my face.

      Of course, being the cheeky chit (I’m sure your much-respected Sir Arthur would agree) that I am, I responded to his ‘permanent walk’ comment with, “I hope the angels have a pooper scooper.”

      Totally sure of himself, his reply carried a note of somber authority. “There is no poop in heaven.”


      More than you ever wanted to know, I’m sure. But it was cathartic to write it out.

      Thanks for your kind words, Seamus. Much appreciated.

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      Thanks, Joel. I just had a… “Moment.” I was trying to open the calendar in my phone this afternoon and I clicked the wrong icon. My photo files opened instead, and the first one I saw was of my sweet girl. It just sort of hit me all over again that she’s gone. I just wish it hadn’t hit me when I was in the middle of getting my oil changed. I think the technicians were concerned that they’d done something wrong. Gah!

  1. deviant wench

    Oh, sweetie. Of course you miss her dreadfully, it shows just how much you loved her.

    My sympathies, Feve. And of course, it will get better. And when your’e ready, she’ll come visit you in your dreams. All my past babies do.

    And although I don’t believe in heaven (or hell), I make an exception for animals. I firmly believe that they WILL be waiting for me, all of them, at the rainbow gate, when I die.

    I’m sure your beautiful girl will be there waiting for you too. ::hugs::

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      And when you’re ready, she’ll come visit you in your dreams.

      I woke up yesterday morning with crystal clear memories of a dream, Wenchie. Not about my precious pup, but about my baby Button. And I remembered this comment. There was a lot in the dream that I have yet to decipher, but when I woke up I was… Serene. In a smiley kind of way. Because her spirit had sought me out, and I knew she was okay.