Dear Spike,
I sit, silent in my bed.
Snow, or maybe rain, pounds at my window, accentuated only by the fleeting ticks of my clock.
By the quiet beats of my heart.
How has a month already passed?
How had he...
Already passed?
It has only been a month.
But every so often, I swear I can still feel him here. Those warm little patches of floor he leaves when he wakes from his slumber. Phantom tip-taps of little paws in the hall. A tiny nose, always following me in curiosity.
I let my hand dangle for a moment. Expecting--no, hoping, for Spike to scamper up for a little scratch on the head.
But he isn't here.
Not anymore.
At least, not physically.
Anymore.
It's raining for sure now.
It's hard to type through the downpour.
The vet said he still had up to half a year left with his failing heart. That the medicine she prescribed would help him live again, just a little longer. Why didn't it work?
Why didn't it work?
His bed is still there. Myself, mom, dad--Shining Armor, even--we still want to see him there whenever we glance by. We do still see him there whenever we walk past.
He's just sleeping, isn't he?
...No.
I have to stop. The rain is pouring.
But I have to be strong. For him. For everyone I have left. My friends. My family.
The little jackets and sweaters mom used to put on him sit, unworn, next to his toys.
On the day after you passed, I made you a shrine. The rain came down hard that day, too. I know you were afraid of heights, so I hope that the spirit of the earth who visits the shrine-box beside you can guide you safely onward.
I still feel the warm spots as I walk through the house.
I still hear the whines. See your puppy eyes at the table.
No, Spike, the vet said you can't have red meat.
But I hope that now, wherever you are, you can eat whatever you want, whenever.
No more needles and pinpricks, or cold injections of insulin. No more cataracts to take away your vision.
I take off my glasses. The salt's beginning to crystallize around the lens.
You knew your time had come, didn't you?
I wonder if, when I held you up to the mirror, you saw that you were ill. That your poor little heart was giving out.
And so you laid down, one last time, at the top of the stairs.
Were you waiting for me?
I was eating my breakfast after I'd given you yours. You knew already that you couldn't handle anymore exercise. That you needed to be carried around everywhere you went in your final weeks.
And yet, one last time, you scampered up the stairs. "Jump-jump-jump," mom would say.
And you waited for me, just like you always did when I came home from school.
Just... quietly sitting, watching me from above.
And then you lay down. One final warm spot.
Your heart stopped then.
I tried, so, so hard to keep you with me. The world was still, then. It was only me and you, at the top of the stairs. You, gasping your final breaths. Me, beating your heart for you.
But those breaths came weaker each time. I did my best to continue the compressions with you in my arms as mom drove us to the hospital.
But in my arms on that snowy day, your body grew cold.
You can close your eyes now, boy. It's okay now. You're safe with me, always.
Please, close your eyes.
Close your eyes, Spike.
Can you still see me?
Does it hurt?
I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry for those times I stepped on your little feet. For those times I tripped over you. For every one of the thousands of pinpricks you felt in your scruff, day after day.
You were a strong boy. They said that with your diabetes, you would be lucky to last another year.
That was three years ago.
Every time I step into my room, I still see you, waiting for me under my desk.
Another warm spot.
And in the living room, where a little clipping of soft fur at the shrine is all that remains.
I left some apples for you with your treats there, boy. I know you liked them. And your toys, too--every single one of them is there. Even that smiley watermelon that you shredded in a day. Photos of you scroll by day after day in the digital photoframe--an echo of you beside the bed you left behind.
Another warm spot.
It's been a month, but your water bowl's still there. And all the little spots of water you left on the floor with it.
Another warm spot.
So many warm spots.
Even a month on, your presence still lingers.
I wonder, do you visit us in spirit? Is your sister with you, wherever you are now?
I never took myself as being very spiritual.
But I understand now, more than ever before.
It hurts.
It hurts so, so much.
It's not a physical hurt.
It's not something you can point to and say "Ow".
Because that would be my whole body.
I'm afraid to go to sleep sometimes now. It hasn't been that way since I was a kid.
Last night, I dreamt that I took you with me to the Natural History Museum, to see the big dinosaur bones and interesting stones.
But then, in that dream, you had a heart attack, again, in the parking lot.
And once again, you passed away in my arms.
I want to dream of running with you in the park again, like old times. Before diabetes and cataracts made you afraid of the poky grass. Before you grew slow and old.
I'm afraid.
Mom has always been there to comfort me.
But we're all getting older.
I'm afraid.
Sometimes, I have this nightmare, where I'm the only person left in the world. Not because of war or famine or anything else of the sort--but because I've outlived them all.
I don't want to be alone.
I put a photo of you on the fridge not too long ago. One from when you were younger, riding on the swings at the park.
I hope it's enough for you to smell what dad's cooking for dinner. You always liked to sniff around the kitchen during those times.
I still say goodnight to you every night, even if it's only to the photos beside your empty bed.
You're still there, in my heart. Peacefully sleeping on that old blanket you claimed as your own.
I need to get some more tissues.
I didn't think that I was very spiritual.
But lately, I've begun to wonder.
I've done some bad things in the past. Driven away close friends in very bad ways.
I wonder. Is this somehow a punishment? For being a terrible friend?
I'm doing better, I promise. And I'll keep doing better, forever and ever. Just please.
Keep my family and friends safe. I'm the one who started it.
Can you be my guardian spirit?
It's three in the morning.
I can hardly see through my tears.
My eyes are puffy and sore.
It hurts. Everywhere.
I hope it didn't hurt for too long, Spike. I hope that when your poor heart finally gave out, those quiet yelps you gave were not in pain. I hope that you heard my reassurances that you'd be okay.
You can close your eyes now, Spike.
Did you know that that day would be the day? That you would finally let go when everyone was home around you?
Did you see us through those milky cataracts?
I wonder if your spirit still uses my socks as pillows.
I wonder if I can find you under my bed again, chewing on that doorstop you liked to steal.
The bite marks are still there on that rubber wedge.
Many little warm spots.
I watched a new show recently. It was about a family, and they had a big dog.
I can't stop thinking about you.
I know I can't change the past, no matter how hard I try.
And even if I could, I'd probably make things worse.
The rain is falling harder again.
I don't think it's snow anymore.
I hope that you're sleeping safe and warm at the shrine. Even if it's not where you would've normally slept.
A mystery warm spot. Maybe.
Mom likes to pray every night. Maybe I should learn the words myself.
I'm not sure.
I haven't been this unsure probably ever before.
This is the first time someone so close to me has died.
Dad puts on a strong face. I know both of his parents died of cancer before I was born.
I wonder if he cries at night sometimes too.
Every time I go to brush my teeth, I stand beside that spot where you like to bask in the summer sun.
Another warm spot.
I know I can't bring you back. I know I have to move on, eventually.
And I think I've already accepted your passing.
But I'm unsure.
Because it still hurts.
I still listen while eating breakfast, hoping to hear you crunching down on your kibble.
We still have so many vials of your insulin injections in the fridge.
We're hoping that we can donate them somewhere. So that even beyond this physical world, you can still bring joy to someone. That what you've left behind can help another dog's life carry on just a little longer.
Hopefully.
I've wanted before to experience so many things in this world. To learn new things. Go to new places. Do things in my life that I would've only dreamt of before.
But I guess one of those experiences is inevitably grief.
The rain has let up a little.
My back hurts from typing at this angle.
Maybe this whole time, you've been right beside me, watching me type.
Sometimes I wonder if this is all still a bad dream. That someday I'd wake up with you pawing at my hand.
My most faithful assistant.
My eyes are sore.
My stomach aches.
My back is hurting.
My appetite still hasn't quite returned.
I still lean over in my chair during dinner, expecting to find you staring back at me with those big puppy eyes.
Or following me everywhere I go.
I'm sorry I got frustrated and moved you out of my room those many times while I was busy with homework. I know you just wanted to play.
I like to imagine now, every night, of giving you big, goofy belly rubs, and as many ear scratches as you can possibly get.
I know you loved them. With those big floppy ears of yours.
I wonder if the other me is going through the same thing. Or if there are even more mes that I don't know about.
I wonder how many of them will lose Spike.
I heard that the other Spike is a dragon.
I wonder if there's another world where he outlives me.
Would he mourn me in the same way I do him?
A simple shrine would be all that I'd ask for. Someplace to pay respects.
It's nearly 4 AM now. Waking up isn't going to be very fun in the morning.
You used to follow me downstairs every day. You'd wait in your bed until I came by in my backpack.
Do you still wait for me now?
I know you do. You were always a smart boy. You knew how to be very patient.
I hope my dreams of you stop ending in tragedy. I don't want you to suffer anymore, even in my dreams.
You're free now.
You can go wherever you want. Eat whatever you want.
Maybe you chase the squirrels I keep seeing around school.
Maybe you run through the flocks of pigeons I spot on the road.
It's okay now.
You can close your eyes.
I'm okay.