Things I wrote just before and after she died

My dog died a year ago today – it seems like a good time to post these somewhere

We walked east

3 Feb 2023

This evening she had a sudden burst of vigour, and asked to go for a walk. Of course, of course!, I said, and we hopped up with wagging tails.

The light outside was strange and heavy. Indigo clouds sat in a solid ridge across the sky, and the sun beneath was sodium yellow, Lovecraftian and vulgar.

So we walked east, away from the sunset, and she tugged on her lead with energy I didn't think she still possessed.

As we passed a weathervane on a lower street it screeched and twisted to point southwest; a strange, warm wind for February. I turned my face to feel the breeze, like a breath, and that sickly yellow light leering out from the sky's lip reminded me that the world was about to end.

So we walked east, away from the sunset, with no destination in mind, anywhere but here, and she pulled and I followed and we walked-

further than we should have gone,

but no distance at all-

until all at once she stood stock still, drained, looking up at me, asking a favour she didn't want to ask.

I scooped her up, Of course, of course!, and carried her home, savouring the ache in my arms. It was finally night, and it was easier to walk into the darkness than the sunset.

Let me try again

4 Feb 2023

Let me try again

I know more now, and I am better for her

So much better for her

I made too many mistakes to forget, but I can undo each one if you let me go back. I didn't deserve her but I don't deserve this

Give me the puppy, the wriggling creature that loved me instantly, hand her to me again, and I will make her less scared of the world. She will sleep next to me that first night while I watch over her and she will never leave my side, never sit home alone

I will be more patient, more fun, less tired. I have learnt to understand her better and be better and I need more time to show her what she has taught me

I will catch the blood bugs before they hurt her little body and I will live the full fifteen years I should have had with her, not just these four-and-a-half, which are not enough, not enough, not enough

Why is love not enough to keep her here? Where is its power going? It feels like it ought to be capable of anything, it wells up inside me and through the sorrow and chokes me, so where is it going if not to clutch her sweet fur and heal her?

I would do anything for her; please, let me do anything for her,

let me try again

The third oak in

6 Feb 2023

It takes quite a long time to dig a grave, even a grave for a little terrier, even in good soil.

Jack chose a spot in the new woodland. He'd planted it and she'd provided amusing obstruction, a little white whirlwind.

He worked with quiet skill, shedding his jumper after a minute. I stood to one side with the sun on my back, smelling the good smells of the farm, keeping my thoughts narrow.

They'd walked through the growing saplings every tea break and lunchtime. Now she'll lie quiet, by the third oak in from the path, and he'll drink his tea in the tool shed.

After a while, Jack hit earth as hard as rock, studded with flints. This is as far as the plough ever got, he said. But we'll go deeper.

The last foot was all clay, and this pleased him, not just because it makes neat edges, but because a foot of clay is plenty dense enough to keep the rain out. She hated the wet, he said. I nodded, loving him more.

As he worked he cut his hands on the shattered flint and his blood, bright red, ran into the clay.

I kissed her little head through the shawl before he laid her down, and went off to walk her daily walk while Jack filled in the grave. I couldn't stand to watch.

I took the longer of two routes, winding through the newly planted woodland and the grass, all golden in the winter sunshine. Tiny creatures rustled either side of me, invisible in their careful homes.

I could have walked forever, away from the pain, melting into simple sensations. But when I looked back I saw Jack stand up, alone, and I cut back through the long grass.

We picked snowdrops, tied them with ivy, and left them on her grave.

Good girl, Día, we said. Well done.