There's no easy way to write this or lay it out there or make it pretty. My boyfriend Bentley died on Monday, 17 months to the day after his brother Blake.
He won't be there to greet me at my parents' house. And he did. The minute he heard my voice his ears perked and he came. These last months his hearing was completely gone and it would take my walking into the room for him to perk up. My parents will even admit that he was partial to me: I his mistress, he my master.
Since my parents moved down the street at Christmas, Ella and I have enjoyed staying at their house with him from time-to-time so that he didn't have to be at the kennel. Did I mention how much I hated for him (and his brother) to be boarded? I did. I would spring them early more often than not and live out of two homes just so that they would be comfortable. I was a freak that way and it became a joke, really. Thank God Larry and Ella were always so understanding about my relationship with these boyfriends.
Over the weekend, we started preparing ourselves and Ella of the inevitable. It helped me to talk it out with her. I was honest and tried to explain that a body being tired and being older doesn't necessarily mean death...but that in his case it did.
"How does God get Bentley to heaven, mama?" "Is God here now to do it?" She asks excellent questions, that girl.
"He will be with Simba and Blake and Jack and Una now." She is also listening and holding onto our earlier conversations.
I'm amazed at how the death of a pet can bring a strong, practical person to his or her knees. It defies all explanations. But if you've been fortunate enough to have a four-legged being in your life, you get it. You really, really get it.