life without Chay

So far life without Chay has been just that…life – without Chay. It’s weird. I feel quite a bit of relief, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I didn’t really even know it was there until it was gone. No more worrying about her leg breaking, about getting her meds, about whether or not we were keeping her alive too long. That’s a lot to have on your plate.

I keep seeing things that remind me of her. Last night I washed her towels, the one we put under her bowls and the one we used to wipe her feet. Those were her towels. They looked so wrong sitting in the closet. She’ll never use those towels again, we’ll never again wipe her feet. I put her kong in the dishwasher this morning. Her pills are still in the cabinet, because we don’t really know what to do with them, and throwing them away doesn’t seem right. This morning I began to turn my head towards her room to say good-bye to her, but stopped myself. She’s not there.

I got my new checks in the mail yesterday. I’d been ordering greyhound rescue checks for a while now, but decided to go with the standard issue bank checks this time, thinking I’d save a little money. I should have gotten the greyhound ones. I ordered them before she died. They weren’t even that much cheaper. That sucks.

The other day after we came home from grocery shopping Bee went into Chay’s room (well her room now), stood by the bed, and said ‘Chay-chay?’ She’d moved on to something else before we could even respond, but that hurt. Bee won’t even remember her.

I sat down at the computer to put together a little tribute for her on Facebook, and was overwhelmed when looking through all the pictures we have of her. I’d forgotten how she was, what the cancer took away. She was so fun-loving and silly, always lying in funny ways, always ready to run or pounce. She lived for walks, and her ears would perk up at even the slightest sound resembling her collar/leash. We couldn’t even take plastic bags out without her wanting a walk. She used to come in for pets at least once an hour, and loved snuggling on the couch or our bed. She hadn’t done those things in so long. She wasn’t herself, and it happened so slowly that we didn’t even realize it.

I’m eternally thankful that we decided to be with her until she died. We held her as she took her last breath. We watched her head jerk around at every sound because the sedatives have a hallucinatory effect. We were there as she went from a nervous, panicky dog (how she always was at the vet) to being calm and pain-free. I knew the exact moment that she died. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I guess eventually I’ll stop thinking about her as much. It’s okay now. I like the constant reminders. They’re not a wet nose poking me for pets, but it’s something.