You died on a Tuesday

I am reading the post I wrote just four days ago and realizing how quickly life can take a turn.  Two days ago, the sweet softly snoring bulldog, Pete, had to be put to sleep.    It happened so quickly.  Tumors. Cancer.  A decision I knew some distant day I would have to make, but never ever wanted to.  He wasn't himself and was in such a lot of pain, so he made the decision a little easier for us.  He put on that strong confident face he used when he wanted his way.  This time it was no different.  He went peaceful, with us there with him, stroking his face and telling him go sleep sleep Pete Pete like we did every night.  This time he didn't get his favorite little nigh-night cookies to go with it.  Eternal rest.

We have spent the last two days lost, crying, wishing anything to have him back.  Wishing for one more time to play ball with him in the yard, one more time to see his sweet little almond soulful eyes looking lovingly up at me.  Hell, I even want to hear one of his funny little airy farts!  He was full of noise, personality and life.  You knew when he was grouchy, you knew when he was happy, you knew when he was schmoopy and just wanted to follow you around and sit as close as possible to you and rest his head on your knee.   How do we get used to life without him?   It seems quiet, empty and colorless.  He was our comic relief, buddy, baby.   I have never cried this much for anything else in my life.  Two days ago I couldn't even fathom how we would heal from this.

But life is miraculous.  With each good cry, and each conversation between Bev and I about all his little quirks and what we miss about him, each time we realize that Pete is still adding to our lives by the lessons his passing is teaching us, we get closer to healing and becoming whole again.  

Last night I sat on a big rock in the middle of the Green River that runs near our house.  I took comfort in the gentle sounds of the current, realized that just like this water running past me, that life goes on, that love is strong and regardless of large stones and obstacles of time, space, loss, that it continues.  I prayed to my Grandma that she meet Pete where ever they both are, that she keep him well, feed him ice cream (which he loved).  I know she would love him.  I asked her also to let us know she has him and that he's ok. 

Today, on the way home from work, we saw a hawk.  We saw him in the same place yesterday.  The weird thing about where we live now, we rarely see hawks.  The hawk is special to us.  A guardian, a guide, a messenger.  Today, that hawk flew along side our car and we instantly knew that it was a message from Pete or my Grandma, that he was ok, that everything was going to be ok.

We will have another dog one day.  But he died this Tuesday and for now he's the only one we want.

Peter Louise Judd
July 2001-August 16, 2011
May you rest in Peace and remain in our hearts always.