Greta had her last car car ride today. I picked up her ashes from the vet. The box felt heavier than I expected. I briefly considered rolling down the window for her as usual. I was curious, so I unscrewed the lid to the wooden box and looked inside. Ashes in a double bag. I felt a little disappointed, expecting some flash of recognition of the dog I loved so much. I carefully screwed the lid back on. Part of me wants to keep the ashes in the house so Greta will stay close. Eventually we will bury her in the yard near the other dogs and cultivate a little site for her including flowers and a marker.
Greta was so intertwined with every aspect of our life that her absence is heart-wrenching. I open the front door and expect her to be there to greet me. I look over on the sofa to check on her but she is gone. Our meals now go unshared. We never went too far away for too long. We came back from vacations anxious to pick her up from doggie camp.
The daily walks are over. When I rattle the collar and leash there are no more sounds of toenails rapidly clicking down the stairs. The signs of her life here are now cherished artifacts. Dog hair, dog treats, raincoat, her beds, blankets, pillows, and even her doggy scent, savored and slowly fading.
In her last days as she declined, we continuously talked to her, touched her, kissed her, smelled her, desperate to cram every possible detail of her into our memory. Barely a few minutes were spent away from her. I close my eyes and imagine her weight as I carried her up and down the stairs. I imagine how her paws felt in my hands.
We still miss her terribly and try to get through each day. I am happy for all the memories and mementos we have of Greta and hope one day I will see her again.
