That lingering sense of loss

The sense of loss is everywhere.

I feel it everyday, from the moment I wake up. I start down the stairs expecting to hear Vixen's footsteps, to see her welcoming me. I do repairs and I look to where she used to sleep; I keep taking care not to disturb her, but she's no longer there. I do some hammering, expecting her to bark, or to run where I am and to look on. There is always that expectation of her being there--and always that painful realization she is not. I leave the dried urine outside alone; the sun and rain will eventually dry and wash the smell away.


For years, everything I did at home and away was with thought of my babies, of Boobie, Almond, and Vixen. These past four years everything revolved around Vixen. This overbearing emptiness continues. I keep looking for her, watching for her, listening for her, waiting for her, as if somehow she'll be there.

What do I do without my dearest baby?

The days have no meaning now.

Living without you

My dearest Vixen,

More than a day has passed since you died, and this world has become unbearable without you. I wake up waiting to hear your footsteps, only to find silence. I look to where you used to sleep, knowing I will never see you there again. I come home knowing you will never be there again to welcome me. I hear the rain knowing you will never again shake upon its sound, terrified of thunder. All the cares and worries that concerned you, all gone now, save for the memory of what once was.

When Boobie died, I had you and Almond for comfort. When Almond died, I had you. Now that you're gone, I have nothing. How many times have I asked you, in the silence of our hearts, not to leave me? How many times have I asked the fates or whoever is in charge of the universe to let me go first? The time for your feeding comes: you are not there.

Of course my surviving you is better for you. Who else would take care of you? The thought makes the pain no less. There is this awareness of your absence everywhere at home, even outside.

You are gone, and I can hardly bear it.

I walked around early tonight, almost in a daze, but not quite. For the first time in more than four years, I had a drink. I had three--J&B, straight up. I drank to your life. I thanked you for all that you were and always will be to me. I drank to following you soon.

Vixen, September 1, 1998-December 20, 2011

My Vixen is gone. My Babes, my Sen-sen, all those loving names I called her.

She was with me for more than thirteen years, literally from the moment she was born, the only female in Boobie and Almond's second litter. I had to put her to sleep today, December 20, 2011. A cancer was taking her body; there were lumps on her liver, her lungs, her ribs. She could hardly walk. All her life I took care to make her happy, protecting her always, making sure she would never suffer. I had to let her go before the pain became too great.

She had been sick since the end of October. I feared the end was coming, but I held back my tears and held on to hope till yesterday, when it became clear she had to go, for her sake.

I don't know how many times I've cried or how hard. What does it matter?

My baby, my Vixen, my Babes, my Sen-sen, my Vickisensen is gone.

There is an emptiness inside that is almost unbearable. It hasn't even been a day, but weeks seems to have passed. It takes forever for a simple hour to pass. Time moves so slowly. I have lived too long.

With Vixen's passing, an era ends. Boobie came to me in 1991, Almond in 1995, Vixen in 1998. Boobie died in 2005, Almond in 2007, Vixen in 2011. My babies are gone. For the first time since 1991, I am in a house without babies.

Goodbye, my Sen-sen, my lovely. Thank you for for all the years of joy and comfort that you gave me.

Time moves so slowly, and life is dark now. Yes, I have lived too long.

Death, cycles, and a new year

At the approach of every new year I tend to think in terms of cycles, of good years and bad years, of transition years that led to great years, and naturally perhaps, of really bad years, mostly those characterized by death. And so it is this year, as I look back at the year about to end. It comes to me as neutral: long-nurtured dreams and hopes remained largely unrealized despite initial hopes that maybe, just maybe, this would be the year for me, but then again (thus far anyway), no major deaths occurred.

It is perhaps quite morbid to dwell on death on what ought to be a season of joy and rebirth, of hope in a new year, but having gone through what has seemed like a long season of death, I can perhaps be forgiven, if a little. Some deaths leave you very much diminished, and irreversibly changed.

And so as it had been in New Years’ past, my thoughts turn to life and death amid the smoke, the fireworks, and the noise. Amid expressions of hope, I think of cycles and seasons, as if anything would really change because a political or scientific institution says we have entered into a new cycle, a change in the year, a new revolution around the sun. But when exactly does the cycle start? Where exactly does an ellipse begin? Are we actually in a new cycle or somewhere in between? Amid all the hype, all the greetings, all the hopes, when the old year ends and the new one begins, the night that sees both will in fact be the same, the years separated by a second but sharing very much the same night, and with it my same self, diminished by the lives I have lost, in the new year as in the old.

And my thoughts, I expect, will turn to cycles.

I find myself hoping that at the end of what has been a rather neutral year, having brought no great success but then no great disappointments, neither some delirious ecstasy nor some debilitating sorrow, that in the law of cycles, if such even exists, this neutral year about to end will lead to a great one, however “great” may be defined. Maybe just a good one will do. Or maybe something neutral.

Life teaches us somehow to look at cycles, from good to bad and vice-versa. Or perhaps at seasons, one season leading to the next. How else should we hope, if we should hope at all, if not to hope that the good will come again? Somehow. Even in a long season of death, that there will be life again. Somehow. And amid the tears, there will be some joy, even if some space is reserved always for tears, for losses that never can be replaced, days and lives and warmth and smiles that can never be regained.

And so I expect to find myself this New Year’s Eve standing outside my home, as I had in years past, in good years and in bad; I expect to find myself watching the fireworks and taking in the noise and the strangely wonderful smell of fireworks, looking up at the sky perhaps like some romantic fool, and, like always, dwelling on cycles, remembering the lives that are no longer with me, whose absence has diminished me, and yet smiling somehow, somehow, for the lives that remain with me, making life bearable, at times even wonderful.

All in cycles, if we believe in such things. But really, what choice do we have but to believe, even if we don’t?

In memoriam, Garpy, December 29, 1982-August 10, 1991, Lovingly remembered on the anniversary of his death

After all these years,
I still remember.
That last day, that last time.
You waited for me,
one last time.
Then you left.
You saw me through the dark times,
then said goodbye.

After all these years,
you remain in my heart.