Sorry, I just really didn't know where to go. It's been a long three days.
I'm an Airman stationed in Nebraska. A year and a half ago, I left the house I lived in my whole life, along with my parents, my autistic older brother, our two dogs and two rabbits.
Several months ago, we lost our eight year old rabbit Jenny to an aggressive neurological disease, which hit my brother incredibly hard. He has incredibly overwhelming social anxiety and suffers from daily panic attacks. My parents are older and work full-time, and my leaving home did not help him very much, and so I've been trying very, very hard to be strong for him, but it's wrecking me.
Three days ago, I got a call from my dad crying. My seven year old Labrador, Totoro, jumped off my parents bed that morning, and he woke up to her painful screaming. After a rush to the emergency vet, the obvious was realized. She had broken her back leg. But then came the worst news; she had been suffering from bone cancer, and it had spread to her brain. Suddenly the diagnose of an inner ear infection two weeks ago made sense.
These past three days has been filled with so much grief and pain. At seven tonight, they will be putting down my precious girl, who I've loved so thoroughly and yet not enough. No words can describe the painful tightness in my throat nor the heaviness in my head.
Toader was my soul dog. She had come into our lives after the sudden death of our first dog when I was thirteen. I had chosen her from a litter of small, eight week old puppies for her almost intense affection. Every day since then, she was my lapdog, my movie buddy, my hiking partner, my companion for random car rides through rural Oregon. She was my best friend in every way someone would have wished for; she was trusting but protective, she was incredibly intelligent, but not independent in any way. I would wake up in the morning with her next to me, her head on my arm breathing her warm smelly breath into my face. She would grunt her unsatisfied grunt as I got up for school or work, and would lay in bed until she heard the rattle of car keys, and she would see me off, and when I returned, she would be the first "welcome home", waiting by the bay window.
She was the one I missed the most through all the horrible days of BMT, and my entire flight knew it; From crying when I talked about her without end during our little free time on Sundays, to sobbing that time I saw a stray dog at an obstacle course. My biggest joy was the letters I'd receive from my folks or my brother on the weekend, because it'd almost always include a photograph of my beautiful girl, which I would (dangerously) carry around with me during those seven weeks. The first time I came home was during Christmas, seven months after I had left. On the long ten hour journey back home from Texas, I spent half of it crying in excitement to see her again. My precious, wonderful girl. I wanted so much to tell her I was coming home, that I missed her more than anything.
There was no greater happiness than coming home to those cries and kisses of "I missed you so much", or waking up again with her head next to mine and her cold lil body tucked under my sheets, and laying there just loving her presence, of being reunited again, just as there was no greater pain than those horrible goodbyes as I hugged her neck while she wiggled furiously to get out the front door. She knew what packing meant; we were going somewhere! and no way were we going to go without her.
But time and time again, I had to leave her, with a promise of "I'll be back soon, okay?"
But I will never make that promise again, nor will I ever fulfill it. I will not be able to hold her as she closes her eyes again, kiss her little cold brown nose or give her a well-deserved ear rub. I will never fulfill my promise of taking her to the river when the weather gets better, or once again buy her another cup of frozen dog yogurt. There will be a bone I got her for Christmas that will never be finished. There is a quilt on my bed that will be washed but never again soiled with her muddy paws. There's the tattoos of her paws on my arm that will never again be matched to her little feet.
We were suppose to have so many more Christmases, so many more trips to the dog park. She wasn't old enough, it wasn't fair, it's not her time, we had so many more things to do, I had so many more kisses to give her, and my heart aches and I feel like this whole in my heart will never be filled again, not with all the dogs in the world. The promises I make with another dog will never satisfy the broken promises I made with her. Of all the dogs I've had, none has ever filled my heart the way she has. Of all the friends I make, there will never be one like my sweet girl.
My heart is breaking, breaking, breaking. I just want to hold her again and tell her how much I love her. She doesn't understand why I'm not there with her, she doesn't know. I won't be the one kissing her face as she slips away, I wont be the one giving her one last ear rub. Everyone keeps saying "I know it's hard, but your family will take care of her." I know that. I know they will. But I will never see her again.
It's not fair, I came home less than a week ago, after not being home for over half a year. It's not fair that she's only seven years old but she already has to die. It's not fair that I got to be with her for every hard moment until now. It's not fair, it's not fair, how could this be fair? She was my soul dog, my best friend, the one I loved so much, the one who taught me how to put others first. She was patient and kind, she never even chewed on furniture, not once. She never did anything wrong. So why? It's not fair that my brother is losing one more precious thing, when he barely has any to begin with. It's not fair that all he can say is "They're all I have, they're all I have, she's dying but she's all I have." it's not fair that I can't be there with my mom, who can't even say one word without breaking down into tears. It's not fair that our other dog Truffy, who's already eleven with health problems herself, will have to spend the rest of her life without her best friend, who should have outlived her. It's not fair that, while my sweet girl is eating her last breakfast of pancakes and chicken, I have to be a million miles away laying on my couch with the flu. I would suck it up if it meant I got to see her one more time. I would do anything.
I loved her so much. There's just not enough to describe this horrible, heavy, suffocating grief. It's just not fair. I loved her so, so much. Why is that never enough? Why do these things never end as they're suppose to?