For me, February is not a month of love. 
It is, instead, a month of death. And a month of remembering the dead. 

Of course, there have only been vastly significant deaths in my life to date: my grandfather and my dog. 
This, I realize, is retarded. People have suffered immeasurably greater amounts than I, so my hurts are ridiculously tame and perhaps even easy to handle.

But this is my life. 
This is what is important to me.
My grandfather, who whispered to me once that I was his favorite. A whisper I will never forget.
And my dog, who loved me unconditionally. 

And now I sit here in the dark of my dorm room, my iTunes on shuffle and tears streaming down my face, writing this angsty piece of shit. Gods, shoot me now.


Does it ever really get better? Does it ever stop hurting? Does the space inside where my loved ones used to live ever really get filled up again? 

I hate this. 
This stupid sadness that makes ever song feel like a requiem for the dead, that causes tears to course down my face at the most insignificant mentions.
The stupid fact that it's been nearly two years since his death and burial and I still miss him fiercely. 

Well, that's all for now.
Expect more in the near future.

I almost wish I had never seen my dog die. 

Every night when I try to fall asleep, I see her die. The scene plays over and over in my head, every single detail replayed in perfect color. 

I was situated in the very corner of the room, my back pressed against the juncture of two sponge-painted walls, colored salmon and cream over white. My mother was next to me and my brother was sitting on the chair in front of me. Minnie was in between us, standing around, wondering why the hell we were still in Exam Room 1 after three interminable hours. Minutes before the doctor came in, she fixed me with a beautiful puppy-dog stare. Even though her brown eyes were clouded with cataracts, I saw the meaning behind them. 
It was love. Pure, unadulterated love. Devotion, loyalty, acceptance, blind trust. 
She trusted me, and here I was, waiting with her for death. 

The doorknob jiggled and turned. In walked Dr. Whit with an electric shaver and a syringe filled with pink liquid.

He spoke, but his words were not important. Words of reassurance, of comfort...words with no meaning, as far as we were concerned. Maybe he knew that, maybe he didn't. But he spoke anyways. His voice was gentle and kind, but I didn't hear what he said. As if on ceremony, we all knelt beside her. 

She sat down, as if sensing something important was about to happen. We had on hands on her, petting her, giving her the tiniest bit of love and support that we could as she faced the death she did not know was coming. He took her right front paw in his hands. The shaver buzzed angrily in his hands, a black demon with metal teeth, designed to cut but not to kill. A three inch patch of short golden-brown hair fell to the floor within a few strokes.

I could not watch him insert the needle, but neither did I have to. The effect it had was almost instantaneous. Her eyelids, perpetually outlined in perfect black, started to droop. I don't know if she laid down of her own accord, or if her muscles could no longer fight gravity, but her body became limp in our hands. Slowly, we guided her to the floor. My mom cradled her head gently and I dug my hands into her fur.

It was finished.

Needless to say, each of us was sobbing. 

Nonsensically, my mom asked, "Can she hear us?"

I can imagine Dr. Whit's thoughts. But instead of asking my mom if she was joking, he smiled sadly and shook his head. Through the whole ordeal, he did not utter a single cliche, for which I was grateful. 

For ten minutes, we stayed with her, crying over her corpse, petting her still-warm and soft fur. I don't remember my movements, only that I somehow managed to stand and walk to the other side of the room. My mother took off her collar, the only collar she ever wore, and joined me. Soon, my brother did the same and the decision to leave was unanimous. My brother left first, followed by my mom. I was the last out of the room, the one responsible for closing the door. 

I looked backed. 
God damn it, I looked back. I saw her lying there on the cold, white linoleum, entirely alone. Her body was half-hidden by a chair, but I could see her face. Her brown eyes were open and her ears were pricked up. Despite the fact that no life remained, she looked happy and peaceful. She looked young again, like she was meant to look. She looked beautiful, and it broke my heart to leave her. I wanted to go back and be with her. I didn't want to leave her alone.

And who even knows what was done with her after that? How was she removed from Exam Room 1? With care? With dignity? With the same amount of respect and love she was used to? Where was she put? In a bag? On a shelf? In a refrigerator? When was she taken to the crematorium? What other beloved pets was she thrown in with? Was she placed, or tossed unceremoniously like a used rag into a sink?

Was she shown the respect she deserved?



Maybe that will bring me some closure...? 
Or maybe I just rehashed painful memories that I will now spend the entire night reliving again.

So that's it.

Minnie is dead. 

There was a tumor coming off of her spleen about the diameter of a grapefruit and five inches long. It compressed all of her organs up under her ribcage. Surgery was an option, but not a realistic one. There was no time. We made the decision, the doctor gave her the injection, and I watched her die.

It almost makes me wonder if it was worth it. Were the 14 years of bliss she gave us worth the pain I feel now? My head aches, my eyes burn, and someone is sitting on my chest. My heart still beats, but with each one it hurts more. 
Grief is not just an emotional ache, it's a physical one. 

She's not in pain anymore.

She's not anything anymore. Just a dead dog lying on a cold, white linoleum floor, brown eyes open, big ears still pricked up.
She's just a shell now. 

It's over.