Tequila

Eight days.

It's been eight days.

And it still hurts.

I keep listening for the clicking of his nails on the floor. For the sound of him tiptoeing into our room, past my sleeping husband, around to my side of the bed, only for him to violently shake his head so his ears would flap and make noise so I'd acknowledge him and lift him onto the bed.

The sounds don't come.

I keep waiting for him to bark at the neighbors, bark at the trash bins moving, bark at my husband, bark at any noise that did not feel right to him.

There is no barking.

Sometimes I'll see something out of the corner of my eye and think it is him sleeping.

Nope.

I still use present tense when talking about him, only to correct myself a second later while my heart hurts.

I woke up early yesterday morning, but decided to go back to sleep. I regretted it because I had a dream about him. He had ran away to die because he didn't want us to hurt (how I knew what his thoughts were, I have no clue). We went looking for him and rushed him to the vet, and she said he'd be fine if we gave him this pill. And he got better.

I snapped awake with tears in my eyes. I felt so guilty, like this dream was accusing me of being a shit owner because I elected to essentially murder my dog. I went on Facebook to distract myself, only to see that his vet clinic had posted this video, which I made the mistake of watching.

Yeah. Not a good idea. I wound up depressed and quiet most of the day.

That's kind of been my whole week though, but I've just been trying to keep it inside because it's not doing my husband and son any favors to see mom go off the deep end again.

I suppose a lot of people think I'm overreacting to what was nothing more than an animal. I'm sure they're thinking he can easily be replaced. There is a lot I'd say to that, but none of it is nice, although I feel that these people could easily be replaced in my life.

I mean, they're just a person after all.