There's
a little hole filled with sadness in my heart right now.
It's
the knowledge that I will never again hear Jasmine’s loud and deep bark when I
enter the house through the front door and quiet her by calling out, “It's
mommy!"
The
fact that I will never hear the little cow bell ring - her alert to go out or for us to let Gypsy
in.
It’s
never being crushed by her 85 pounds as she attempts to curl fully into my lap
while I’m on the sofa.
Of
not slowly repeating her full name when she just looked at me when I called to
her rather than come. “Jasmine. Jane. Clementine. Wills.” It made her move
every time.
It’s
the sadness of not being able to rub her tummy with my feet - something that
started when she was 5 weeks old and being house broken. I slipped on ice on
the deck as I carried her off since she was too little to go down the steps. I
blew out my knee and for six weeks in a recliner I couldn’t reach down to pick
her up; I could only reach her with my foot.
Of
never having her sit on my feet or crowd into the bathroom with me during a
thunderstorm.
It’s
the emptiness of not saying again, “It’s bedtime, girls. Let’s go potty
outside,” because now Gypsy is an ‘only dog.’
It’s
the hurt of not having her sit by my feet when I read or watch a movie, or curl under
my desk while I write.
It’s
the deep sadness of not having her follow me from room to room. She was devoted
to my every move for nearly 12 years.
No
puppy can ever fill Jasmine’s place in my heart.
You
left suddenly, Jasmine. I pray it was peacefully. You will always be the “best little puppy in the whole wide world.”
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