Laika,
You were the heartbeat of my existence. Everyone knew this. Without you, the last week has been devoid of energy and time. Waking up has been such a chore. Seeing your wagging tail, or hearing your trumpeting "I'm hungry" howl used to be my reason to get out of bed. Smiling at 4 am on a cold morning, or even earlier, was somehow easy because your love of breakfast was contagious and kind of awe-inspiring. You lived to eat early and often! After your meal and a quick trip outside, you loved to go back to bed and snuggle in the blankets and drift back into a deep, satisfying sleep.
Now, mornings are not the same. There is no excitement, just routine. I know this void will eventually become another part of my life, but for now it has been the most concrete reminder of your passing. I have probably snoozed my alarm more times in the past week than I did over the course of the past decade. This is not depression, but just deep sadness and remembrance of how my days used to be our days. Laika, you were my motivation for waking-up. You were my motivation for coming home on my lunch breaks everyday. You were my motivation to rush home in the evenings. You were my motivation to happily do it again the next day and the day after that. You taught me that there is comfort in routine and that serving loved ones selflessly brings the greatest joy in life. I cannot thank you enough for teaching me these lessons.
This morning, I left a special treat of banana chips and peanut butter for you on the small memorial in our bedroom. I know these were two of your favorites, that you had to stop enjoying. I even left the blanket on the bed as if you had already been nesting in it! These are the small things I can do to ease the pain of losing you. Along with the memorial candles I have been burning nightly, these physical reminders are ways for me to feel that things can somehow be the same. But, they can't and won't. Comforting reminders help, but your loss is still very new and hard to understand. Writing these daily stories about you has been a huge help in processing both my sadness and joy. I know in the future that things will be easier...but I am sure that some things will also be harder.
I still sometimes sit in the backyard with my eyes closed and hope that I hear you munching the grass. Or during meditation, when my mind wanders, that I will hear your low, calm snoring. Yesterday, I ran near the river and stopped to breathe with the ripples. In my mind's eye, I could see you swimming happily in the water. It made me so sad, but also made me happy to know that your soul is free from the suffering of your previous failing body and all of its imposed restrictions. Even in recent days, I have taken you running with me and not left you at home, as when your body was alive and uncomfortable from the cancer and its treatments. Now, I hope your spirit is stronger and freer that last week, but the light in your eyes, your full-body wiggle of excitement and your sloppy, whiskered kisses are gone forever and are still sorely missed.
Laika, I still carry you in my heart everywhere. I like to think that you have found peace and can still feel the love that I have for you in each breath and joyous thought of our time spent together.
Love,
Dad
NOTE: I went to a very helpful group session for addressing Pet Loss & Grief this past weekend at the animal hospital where Laika was regularly treated. They encouraged writing a letter to your dearly departed companion. I initially wrote this in third-person about Laika, but it was much more emotionally engaging for me to rewrite it to Laika. She always knew everything before I knew it, so these words should come as no surprise to her when she reads it.
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