I knew it was going to be bad, but I had no idea, really. I always said, "When I lose Jag, just put me in the looney bin." Who knew how much truth that would hold?
This has brought me to my knees. The entire house is different. Jag was stability for me. Safety. I knew I was ok with him here. I don't have that now. What I can't get over is that, mentally, he was fine. I can't believe I held him while he died, I wrapped him in a blanket, put him in the back of my truck, and had him burned. He's gone. He's fucking gone.
The depression is kicking my ass. I still lay in the spot I put him down in and just sob. I miss hearing him bark. I miss all his fucking hair all over the place. I miss him nudging my arm to pet him some more. And some more. I miss seeing him waiting for me, smiling and wagging his tail, when I pull up in the driveway. I miss watching him lift his head higher, but still letting Reese jump on him. I miss watching Echo trying to charm his non-existent pants off. I miss everything about him, and I'm sick of knowing he's never coming back. I still can't believe it. I feel like I killed my dog.
What now? What the fuck am I going to do? I can't get another guard dog. That's his spot. The tears give me a headache.
And there are some people in this world who are about as comforting as a porcupine on crack. You know who you are. Please kiss my ass.