He’s been gone for a week and a half and I still can’t really get my head around it. There are times when I feel it and it is so raw and fresh that I’m taken back to sitting in my car like the coward I am as Simon stayed with him in the vet’s office right to the end. There are other times when it is as though he was one of my many fosters that has passed in and out of my heart, making only the smallest of dents. There are times when I feel as though he is waiting at the vet for me to pick him up.
And then there are the times, the gut-wrenching awful sobbing painfully horrific times when I know he is gone, when I can feel the jagged edges of what I suppose used to be my heart like a broken wine glass lodged in my chest and when I swear that I will never, EVER let myself be hurt by any being, human, canine or otherwise, like that again. I’m actually having one of those times right now, as I sit at my desk and write this post. Finding a picture of him drove me to distraction and I took a good half hour to just study the steady progression of white fur down his face over the course of the two years he was mine.
Well, really, I was his. In a way I thought would never happen after my precious boys Profee and Hunky died, Clowny owned me in that way only boy greyhounds of a certain silliness who have hearts far bigger than their chests can contain can do. I think that’s why I’m so wracked with guilt over being relieved that the pee pads are folded and waiting to be returned to Angel-On-Earth Nancy Bowden rather than still waiting in a heap in front of the constantly churning dish washer. How can I be relieved that he isn’t on his bed in the sitting room, barking out a chorus to remind us that he needs something? Is my heart that hard? Have I succeeded in closing off the part of me that relishes every tilted head, each raised ear, all those wags of that whip-like tail?
No. I’m just tired, bone and soul, and it will take time for me to recover. That’s what people tell me, and I guess I’m still in the recovery part because I’m still convinced that there was something we could have done; or that the vet on that last awful day was just being kind to us when he said he suspected that Clowny had a form of cancer that could have caused the entire downward spiral that was our summer.
All I can do is hope that the two years with us were good ones for him. I know he enjoyed traveling, he loved Sandy Paws and Beach Bound Hounds, and he was always happy to go to the festival. One of my best memories is sleeping in the back of my tiny Fit with Clowny during a rainstorm at the Georgia Renaissance Festival…me in full hoop/corset and Clowny getting as close as he could for a cuddle.
I love love love you, Clowny-Boo, and I will never ever forget our short time together. You run now, with Hunky, Jeany, Bo, Profee, and Lizzard and spin just as much as you want. I’m just sorry we couldn’t do more to fix that stupid old body so that it could support your beautiful spirit for a little while longer.
Si no estás no sale el sol.