It's been three weeks now. Three weeks since a vet appointment for a consultation turned into a final goodbye. I guess I'm supposed to be over it, but I'm not.
Today my neighbor was walking her dogs. I stopped to chat a bit and pet her babies. I told her that Trixie was gone, and she was very sad for me. I cried all the way to the grocery store. And, then I had to sit in the parking lot before I could pull myself together enough to run into the store for my snow storm supplies. I got all teary again in the pet food aisle. I had turned down there by habit. Fifteen years of habit is hard to break.
My other neighbor has two dogs. I'm in love with the bulldog, but I'm not allowed to pet him anymore. He wiggles under the fence for continued attention, and his owner gets pretty annoyed with me when his dog takes off. So, I just wave at his smiling, slobbering face. And I go into my quiet house.
This weekend I went to my sister's house for the first time since Trixie passed. I expected her two dogs to look all over for her, wondering why she wasn't with me. They didn't. My nieces have never even acknowledged that Trixie died. That's not surprising since it's a constant coming and going of pets in their house. But I felt horrible the whole weekend. Looking at the kitchen couch reminded me that Trixie spent Christmas hiding under it and pretty much telling me her time was coming to an end. The back bedroom is cold, and I missed Trixie snuggling up to me to keep warm. Helen's cats hate me, so no cuddles from them.
I hear noises in the house. I used to shrug them off and attribute the sounds to the dog. Now, I'm always wondering, what the hell's that? I haven't figured out where to put her bed and bowls. Or maybe, I just won't hide them away because maybe, just maybe, another dog will use them.
I don't want another dog, or so I tell myself. I don't want the expense. The commitment. The mess. The work. All that responsibility. The possibility that I'll need to leave my home for a place that doesn't take dogs. The possibility that while she's healthy now, she is, after all eight years old....
I guess I should mention that I look at Petfinder all the time. One of the dogs keeps calling my name. She's eight years old, housebroken, loves kids and other animals, the whole bit. She was well-loved and given up by an older woman who couldn't care for her anymore. But, she's a Pomeranian mix and looks like Trixie. I stop there. There's no substitute for Trixie. I keep waiting for some family to snap her up, but every day she's still a picture on a computer screen. Her name is Sandy. She needs someone, but I don't know that it's me.
My heart is so broken.
It's hard to be old and alone. Poor Sandy.... I hopes she gets adopted, soon.
