six months

It has been six months since the horrible day we walked into the emergency vet with a dog and left with a leash and collar.

Nobody prepared me for this day. Nothing could have.

I heard people tell stories of how they put a dog down once and could not bear to do it again. Or people that have had multiple dogs and still say it's the hardest thing they've ever done.

I just always hoped I would never be one of those people with a story to tell about their dead dog. But, here I am.

Death was inevitable, as it always is, and the lifespan of a dog is just far too short for how much love they give.

There is something about the death of a dog that is so different from the loss of a human. They are both soul-crushing, terrifyingly hard to grasp, and overall sad - but just so different.

Humans make mistakes - we are nowhere near close to perfect. We have said bad words, done bad things and probably lied and cheated at one point or another.

We are faulted.

And typically at the end - we know it's our time. There are usually goodbyes, an understanding, and a sadness to what has happened/inevitably will happen.

Dogs are not full of sin or fault or knowingly bad acts. Dogs are pure. Dogs are perfect.

As was my beautiful Mickey.

The thing with dog death - unlike people - is the concept of understanding.

I feared Mickey did not understand what was going on. Did he know it was the end or did he think it was just a sick day? Did he know it was his time?

I worried Mickey did not know we loved him as much as we did and I questioned whether he was sad or confused.

It was horrible. I did not know whether or not he would be okay.

I was worried sick. I cried for days after and prayed more than I ever had in my whole life for signs and guidance.

And eventually it got easier.

This is not to in any way discredit the pain of other death or human loss, but just to capture what it has been like the past six months since I have learned to live without Mickey.

My family could not bear the emptiness of the house for long - and we had another dog (Millie) who did fill a void but she is quite the opposite of Mickey.

Mickey was obsessed with us, an 80 pound lap dog who loved us with all he had. Millie anxiously stares at you from across the room - she was really only obsessed with Mickey and our neighbor's backyard, not us.

Millie was depressed, we all were sad, and in true Murphy family fashion the one boy dog we picked out quickly turned into two.

A brother and sister from a white golden litter that we named Larry & Sally. Larry Joseph Bird Murphy & Sally Maye Murphy to be exact (yes after Larry Bird and Drake Maye).

They were no Mickey but they sure helped.

Larry has pieces of Mickey's face - his sweet eyes and the way he curls into a little donut ball to sleep.

Sally is cuddly and tells you when she wants to be pet - just like Mickey.

I do appreciate that neither of them really sit in his spot and his toys are still preserved.

Overall, it is still weird.

The loss of your soul dog is insanely hard to cope with and I won't believe it when people think I am dramatic or crazy for continuing to talk about the death of a dog - but this loss has been the first loss I have experienced within my own household.

Something that shared my home address is no longer with me or taking up residence in the corner of my home, and that is sad.

While Mickey was a dog - he was completely family. I mean most days I enjoyed his presence over everyone else's (sorry family I am only half serious).

Nonetheless, the little memories of Mickey have continued to remind us of our time with him.

Mickey's end of life (which we did not know was the end) was filled with some medicine and dog bandaids over some bumps and old-man dog things.

He was always rocking a cute bandaid. We still have a small box of them near his beach house bed - and I am not sure we will ever get rid of it.

When Katie moved into Clemson in August just days after we lost him - she had a bandaid stuck to one of her moving bags. Just a little angel wink from our boy.

The day after his death I prayed for signs in the clouds - to show me he was with me at our favorite spot. I looked up to see a silhouette of him in the clouds. Angel wink again.

When my mom called me to tell me about Larry & Sally's litter being born, I was at the T stop waiting for my ride to school. I thought it was too early for a new dog but was more optimistic that this litter was not black labs.

One thing I was really sure of was how I will never ever get another black lab. Mickey was the only one I needed for my lifetime.

But, as my mom is introducing this new puppy on the phone - I looked across the T stop and a man with a "Mickey" shirt walks by. Not a Walt Disney or Mickey Mouse - just "Mickey". Another angel wink.

I truly believe that was his way of saying "it's all okay" to the new puppies. His approval if you will.

Just last week I was getting Larry and Sally out of a bush in the depths of our backyard. In this very random bush they were stuck in, an old favorite toy of Mickey's was sitting atop the bush.

I know he still graces our backyard and homes and hearts. I just worry that as each new day passes I get more and more away from him.

More distance, more time, fewer memories.

That is partially why I still love to write and talk about it. It keeps the memory alive of something - some soul - so worth remembering.

I still get sad but I have shifted from tears to a soft-smile. From sadness to gratitude.

I am so lucky to have had the best dog ever. The best childhood dog. The best black lab. The best Mickey.

I would do anything to walk him again, to watch him, to listen to his bark or even to pick up his poop.

Perspective really does change after six months.

I am a firm believer of time healing all wounds. I pray it continues to do so.

And if you relate to this in any way - I am deeply sorry.

Continue to write and speak about your loss, to find things that keep the memory alive, and always look for some angel winks.

All my love,

Jane