There’s a photo of DeDe on the bookshelf. It was taken at the vet’s office the same day she was diagnosed with cancer.
It’s been almost six months since she journeyed on.
In many ways, we’re doing just fine. We have a regular routine, and we stick to it.
But then things happen that make me remember how much I miss her.
Like when a cat pukes on the rug, and I rush to clean it up, then realize that DeDe’s not here to try to eat it.
Or when I find I just can’t make myself go to the local pet store, because that’s where I bought DeDe’s special food.
And when neighbors shoot fireworks, and I have to remind myself that I no longer have to worry about a fearful dog.
It’s times like these I shut off that voice that says, “she was a dog, so you should be over her by now.”
It’s not just me. Rumpy, who’s been a generally healthy dog, has had two infections since her death. And Bubba has gotten worse, though he still holds his own. He has become friends with Rumpy, but it’s nothing like the friendship he shared with DeDe.
Rumpy has been a wonderful dog for me in that he’s forced me to make many changes I wouldn’t have otherwise made.
But DeDe and I bonded like I’ve never bonded with another dog, or cat, or even human. Our complicated relationship was filled with the struggle to keep her healthy, combined with her infectious joy.
Six months later, I still miss her terribly.