Buffy

I sit here and think to myself, don't write it.
The words don't seem to exist. How can I piece it together, describe it? It won't sound right.
I've thought about this post over and over again in my head. Words seem too small, too insignificant, but I'm writing it. I'm doing it. I'll just say the almost unbearable.

Buffy's gone.





She had been sick for a couple months now. I had actually come home over a month ago when it seemed like she might not make it. But she did. Our family was together for Thanksgiving, Christmas, even into 2015. This past Saturday was the day.

She is a dog. Okay, I know some of you won't understand because it looks like she is just a dog, a pet, we can just buy another one. That is honestly as far from the truth as you can go.
She is a dog, yes, but she became such an interwoven thread in our family. 
She's my sister.

My parents brought her home when I was in first grade. I was what, a couple feet tall? Ohmygod. I've known her for more than half my life.

Memories with her keep flooding back. I'll go a couple minutes or even an hour if I'm lucky, but then they trickle and then rush back. Memories that I didn't even realize were there.
I look, expecting to see her napping on the couch,
keeping watch by the window,
nuzzled in her crate.

I strain to hear her bustling down the stairs or to hear the clicking patter of her feet on the kitchen floor. There's only silence.

It hurts. No, it aches, somewhere deep. Sometimes, I can't take it and just want to claw it out.
But would I? If I had a choice, would I stop missing her?

No. As soon as I asked myself that question, I knew the answer.
As much as the memories hurt, I don't want to stop missing her. I want to keep her close.

We always had the best naps, movie nights, soccer games, football games, snow days.
I miss you, honey bunches. I can't wait to see you up there.


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