Grief

Grief

Grief. Five letters. Such a simple little word that has such an emotional impact. This past Saturday we said goodbye to our beloved dog, Beastie. We rescued her nine years ago when she was two years old from an Alaskan Malamute rescue group. At eleven, she had lived a long life. She lived a dignified life. She lived a full life. Most of all, she lived a love-filled life.

I thought I was prepared. I knew I would be sad. I knew I would cry. A lot. I did not know that I would be hurt, in the physical sense, as my heart broke in the spiritual sense.
Beastie was MY girl. Never mind that my husband took care of her primary needs, feeding and watering her. She appreciated that, but it was me that she chose. I was the one she came to first thing every morning and I was the last person she saw before going to sleep every night. Going to bed last night was a gut punch and getting up this morning was a left hook to my heart all over again.

Time heals all wounds; I’ve heard it said. I suppose that’s true. In the coming days and months, I’ll get used to not having her head under my hand as I walk through the house, her by my side. I’ll get used to not having to “Beastie-proof” the house anymore, because she isn’t here to chew on random household items we leave out. I’ll get used to not having her nudge me as I’m blow-drying my hair in the morning, looking for her ear-scratches. But I will never forget the pawprints she has left on my broken heart.