I am home from Dakota's private cremation. I have so many conflicting thoughts and difficult emotions. I did not expect this to be so hard. I had to pull over on the way home so I could cry until I didn't need to any more. Then I could see to drive safely again. I don't cry over my dogs. I love them and I do what I'm supposed to and I'm grateful to share their lives, but I don't cry. Why should I? Dakota had cancer and needed amputation to live. That's a no brainer. No reason for tears. So why now?

I keep reliving the early morning on Saturday, from 5 a.m. until I got him to the vet about 8:45. I keep thinking about how much I must have hurt him, hauling him with that sling around his belly, when he was bleeding internally. When he couldn't get down the stairs and couldn't stand up outside, I hauled him. I could kick myself for that. It had to hurt. Dakota hurt at my hands. So, I cry.

On the way to the cremation, I was fine. In the spirit of Christmas and benevolence, I allowed a poor planner to cut in front of me in the construction zone when he didn't merge in time. He waved, I waved back.

On the way home, I got mean. I mentally dared anyone to put on their signal and try to get into my lane in front of me. I would have sped up to prevent it. I was almost disappointed when no one needed to get over. I wanted a fight. I still do.

On Saturday, Dakota weighed 76 pounds.

Right now, he weighs 2 lbs., 1.5 oz. 

I am so pissed. I wanted to give him so much more. I am so disappointed. 

Guess what I learned? My good dog Belle, the one I always speak so glowingly of as being my heart dog, was my first heart dog. I had another one and, as is often the case, I didn't really know that until he was gone. 

We are all doing things that we shouldn't. Saturday night after Dakota died, my husband made a lovely mulled wine. I think it was so we could drink entirely too much. At 11:30 that night, he called from the bedroom and said he was sleepy and needed to turn out the light and couldn't I come to bed? No, I told him, I really couldn't. For him to get into bed, he just got into bed. For me, getting into bed meant stepping over the corner of Dakota's bed, up against the wall at the foot of my side of the bed. And right now, Dakota's bed is in the back of our car where we put it to give him a cushioned ride to the vet Saturday. His red, plaid blanket is still in the car, too. I couldn't bear to walk in there and see that huge amount of empty space on the floor where his bed wasn't. And I can't take it out of the car.

Evelyn is getting way too many treats. George brought her a huge, special bone from the dog store yesterday. He sat and fed her corn chips for way too long. She got a burrito that didn't get eaten. All of this is out of the ordinary.

She is at loose ends and has lost her rudder. She isn't mourning, but she's lost. She stands and looks around. She needs to be told to do things. 

Feeding Evelyn is hard. Till Saturday, mealtime was a process, a time-consuming ritual. Dakota was so fussy, I had to either mix his food with canned, raw, dehydrated or broth. It had to stew or steep or rehydrate. It took a lot of time. Now, I put it into the bowl and Evelyn is done in seconds. I hate that. It's way too easy.

And most of all, this picture below is what is really wrong now. This is what we saw every day. Always. And no more. This was the place that was faithfully guarded, and this is why it sucks to walk in the door now.