Well, it’s been roughly 36 hours since my beloved dog Fuzzy died. He suffered a cardiac arrest yesterday around noon, after fighting both cancer and heart disease for the last six months. But he was surprisingly strong for most of it, didn’t suffer, and only experienced a serious decline in the last couple of weeks. He went without pain; the doctors tried to resuscitate him several times without success, but he was unconscious through the whole process.
It’s a strange emotional roller-coaster. When he first died, I felt like it was his time. I knew it had been coming, and I was glad that he didn’t suffer. But as time goes by, I notice his absence more and more. Just now, the fireplace clicked on, and I instinctively thought that the noise was Fuzzy moving around. I actually jumped out of my seat, but of course, he wasn’t there.
Last night, I carefully put his bed in its customary spot, next to mine. It somehow felt right to have it there, even if he wasn’t in it. But this morning, I took it to the animal hospital. We’re going to have him cremated, and I know he would want his bed, so I left it with them so they could cremate him in it.
It’s such a strange, hollow feeling. Every single time I get up and walk around, I expect to hear the jingling of his collar as he moves to follow me. Even as he weakened in the last few weeks, he would still raise his head to watch me, and wait for me to come over and pet him. But there is only silence. The house feels empty and dead without him here.
I can’t complain about the way things happened. I know nothing could have been done to prevent this, and it’s not as if he was going to live forever. But I still feel hollow inside.