I lay in bed at 5 am, saying good morning to the spirits of my little boys, petting them in my mind. Loki was very present for me for a couple weeks after he died (just a year and one day before Sam), during the time that Samson was also grieving his loss. As Sam and I settled in, Loki's presence faded and I turned my attention to Sam. But I know Loki's been here this week, trying to comfort me. He's come in my dreams, he's slept by my head as he used to, he's awakened me with his crazy, excited, couldn't-lick-your-face-faster-if-I-tried kisses. I've felt him greeting me at the door with his exuberant energy, tail wagging a mile a minute, barking because I'm not getting the door unlocked fast enough. All of the little things I'd started to forget. I'm so grateful to him, because my mind and body can't wrap themselves around the idea that Sam is gone...after 16 years with me.
I wake in the morning, and I move gingerly so I don't wake Samson or jostle him under from under the blankets as he sleeps between my legs...then I remember. I walk into the bathroom, and I realize that I forgot to put newspapers down for him in case he needed to go to the bathroom in the night...then I remember. I walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water and mix Sam's first medication, look out the sliding glass door, and try to decide whether to let Sam sleep while I shower or take him outside then let him go back to bed...then I remember. I make my breakfast, and decide whether to give him chicken or liver for breakfast with his next medications...then I remember. I am gone during the day and start watching the clock in the afternoon to get home and give Sam his medication...then I remember. I stop at the grocery store, and put dog treats in my basket...then I remember. I have dinner with a friend, and again watch the clock, thinking of Sam's medication and hoping he's feeling okay...then I remember. I pull in the driveway and gather my things, and envision Sam sleeping on his blanket by the door waiting for me...then I remember (and sit in my car for 15 minutes because I can't bear to go in the house). I come in, drop my things, and go to see if Sam is on my bed or on my meditation bench...then I remember. I sit at the dining table working at my computer for the evening, seeing Sam out of the corner of my eye, coming around the corner to tell me he's ready for me to go to bed with him...then I remember. I get weepy, decide he would have been right and I should go to bed anyway, so I go into the bathroom..and amidst my weeping for him I start to put newspapers down for him...then I remember. I climb into bed with his blankets, but he doesn't climb up onto me...and I cannot forget. This has been our routine for the past 6 years since D's death; it's one we repeated even when staying at B's to care for him.
"Phantom limb" is defined as a vivid perception that a limb that has been removed or amputated is still present in the body and performing its normal functions. I think that "phantom dog" is the same sort of phenomenon. Though my mind knows Samson is gone, clearly it is going to take time for my body to remember this.
