Dear Juja
You know you died exactly two years back. I was not there but I knew. I had to go someplace and I knew when I would come back, you would nt be there.
Ten days before you died, you traveled on a train, your spirit vetoing your body, and I know the big-guy did it such that we could meet. These are exactly the kind of things that make you “believe”.
Nothing had changed. When you greeted me after long. It was just like it always is. In your eyes. I did not notice you could n’t move. I just knew we were saying “hello, I am so glad you are here.”. Then I did notice you could nt move. Mum was helping you out and you were looking pained at troubling her. Not pained, because you were in excruciating pain. But in pain because you thought you were troubling Ma for things you would do on your own otherwise. Mama still says she will owe you always.
And me? When I am alone, any long memory of you makes me very sad and quiet. The first two months after you were gone, I thought, I was, infact, not able to cope. I saw you in our regular haunts, by the grass, brushing past the bedspreads. I was hallucinating you were there. I did not know these things happened. My mind had surrendered to the wrenching pain in my gut. And that pain stayed. The deepest kind of pain, from the gut, and the one can make you cry so much you choke. Or make everything implode inside you, churn up your stomach and chest and intestines.
I did choke myself crying the day I heard you died. I used both hands to hold my stomach in, and put my back to the wall. And cried. Breathless and distraught, I felt I was exhausted. I kept telling myself you went away without eating. And that someone should give you something to eat up there. My head was spinning, my eyes felt cold and I just kept saying that. I held an old photograph of you, crushing it and extricating tears from the deepest reaches of my being. I did not know I could feel so much pointed pain. I did not know I loved you that much. These are exactly the kind of things that make you “believe.”
You were a dog. And somehow, I never noticed that. Besides being every bit the dog you were, you were extra sensational. You bit me more than you bit anyone else. No one was growled at more by you. And so many times, you stopped mid-bite. I don’t know if you guys could do that. But you did.
You loved everyone I loved, even if they took me away from you. You mildly snarled registering protest. And that was the last you would say on the subject. You did service to dignity.
When I was ill and cranky, you stood watch over me. You barked out to mom if you sensed I was uncomfortable. I could barely talk that one time. And I could not believe that you managed to fetch Mama. To this day, I wonder if I did tell you anything?
You so did not like Ma talking to me over you. Yet it was you who waited late into the evening for me to come back home. You waited upright and awake.
You stole things from my dresser. You left major teeth marks on them. You did not care that you were destroying property. You knew the exact hour of the day where you could come and bludgeon me with your head to take you out for a walk. Going out for a walk with you was like heaven hamburger. It was like removing the words agenda, purpose, objective, end from my life. It was like being in the doldrums, for a short while, by design.
If I raised my voice, it would ruffle you. I would at least tell you I need to be loud here. Somehow you were never convinced about there existing a sound basis for anyone screaming. You were just fretting when I was screaming. No explaining would do. Dogs don’t like their people screaming. Worry, anger, angst, grumpiness you could always handle. No screaming, we are dogs please.
You are so cool you could have knocked me down with a feather so many times. Your thank you was a tricky set of actions. Dig your nose into not-too-hard a surface and make sniff sounds. Not really sniff, but make the sniff sound. I remember that like my favorite teacher in kindergarten.
I thought I could never go through the gut-pulverizing, eye-freezing, insides-detonating experience again in my life, if I could help it. I could not make friends with a dog and see him/her die. Chances are if I keep a dog again, he/she would beat me to it again. My slam book entry under “greatest regret” had become “not being around when my dog died when I could.”
I know if I could help it, I would never go through that again. But I can’t help it. I erased my greatest regret slam book entry. There are no regrets. Your death is but small in the big, large, milky-way kind of time we had. It is but so small. You endured and guess what, I did too. In the weighing scale of things you can’t measure, you are an out and out 100 pound gorilla.
I will keep another dog. Goodbyes are not the end to anything. Today I know what I would give up if I was scared of goodbyes. I also know the more of you there are, the more fun we will have when I close my accounts here and join you somewhere at your rainbow bridge apartment.
Now all I need to do is live a life worthy of being called a dog’s life.
You know you died exactly two years back. I was not there but I knew. I had to go someplace and I knew when I would come back, you would nt be there.
Ten days before you died, you traveled on a train, your spirit vetoing your body, and I know the big-guy did it such that we could meet. These are exactly the kind of things that make you “believe”.
Nothing had changed. When you greeted me after long. It was just like it always is. In your eyes. I did not notice you could n’t move. I just knew we were saying “hello, I am so glad you are here.”. Then I did notice you could nt move. Mum was helping you out and you were looking pained at troubling her. Not pained, because you were in excruciating pain. But in pain because you thought you were troubling Ma for things you would do on your own otherwise. Mama still says she will owe you always.
And me? When I am alone, any long memory of you makes me very sad and quiet. The first two months after you were gone, I thought, I was, infact, not able to cope. I saw you in our regular haunts, by the grass, brushing past the bedspreads. I was hallucinating you were there. I did not know these things happened. My mind had surrendered to the wrenching pain in my gut. And that pain stayed. The deepest kind of pain, from the gut, and the one can make you cry so much you choke. Or make everything implode inside you, churn up your stomach and chest and intestines.
I did choke myself crying the day I heard you died. I used both hands to hold my stomach in, and put my back to the wall. And cried. Breathless and distraught, I felt I was exhausted. I kept telling myself you went away without eating. And that someone should give you something to eat up there. My head was spinning, my eyes felt cold and I just kept saying that. I held an old photograph of you, crushing it and extricating tears from the deepest reaches of my being. I did not know I could feel so much pointed pain. I did not know I loved you that much. These are exactly the kind of things that make you “believe.”
You were a dog. And somehow, I never noticed that. Besides being every bit the dog you were, you were extra sensational. You bit me more than you bit anyone else. No one was growled at more by you. And so many times, you stopped mid-bite. I don’t know if you guys could do that. But you did.
You loved everyone I loved, even if they took me away from you. You mildly snarled registering protest. And that was the last you would say on the subject. You did service to dignity.
When I was ill and cranky, you stood watch over me. You barked out to mom if you sensed I was uncomfortable. I could barely talk that one time. And I could not believe that you managed to fetch Mama. To this day, I wonder if I did tell you anything?
You so did not like Ma talking to me over you. Yet it was you who waited late into the evening for me to come back home. You waited upright and awake.
You stole things from my dresser. You left major teeth marks on them. You did not care that you were destroying property. You knew the exact hour of the day where you could come and bludgeon me with your head to take you out for a walk. Going out for a walk with you was like heaven hamburger. It was like removing the words agenda, purpose, objective, end from my life. It was like being in the doldrums, for a short while, by design.
If I raised my voice, it would ruffle you. I would at least tell you I need to be loud here. Somehow you were never convinced about there existing a sound basis for anyone screaming. You were just fretting when I was screaming. No explaining would do. Dogs don’t like their people screaming. Worry, anger, angst, grumpiness you could always handle. No screaming, we are dogs please.
You are so cool you could have knocked me down with a feather so many times. Your thank you was a tricky set of actions. Dig your nose into not-too-hard a surface and make sniff sounds. Not really sniff, but make the sniff sound. I remember that like my favorite teacher in kindergarten.
I thought I could never go through the gut-pulverizing, eye-freezing, insides-detonating experience again in my life, if I could help it. I could not make friends with a dog and see him/her die. Chances are if I keep a dog again, he/she would beat me to it again. My slam book entry under “greatest regret” had become “not being around when my dog died when I could.”
I know if I could help it, I would never go through that again. But I can’t help it. I erased my greatest regret slam book entry. There are no regrets. Your death is but small in the big, large, milky-way kind of time we had. It is but so small. You endured and guess what, I did too. In the weighing scale of things you can’t measure, you are an out and out 100 pound gorilla.
I will keep another dog. Goodbyes are not the end to anything. Today I know what I would give up if I was scared of goodbyes. I also know the more of you there are, the more fun we will have when I close my accounts here and join you somewhere at your rainbow bridge apartment.
Now all I need to do is live a life worthy of being called a dog’s life.
