Puppy Breath

“It’s been a year, don’t you think it’s time?” My sister questioned me as she walked into my kitchen. There, off to the corner of my refrigerator, two stainless steel dog bowls lie. They haven’t moved since last spring. They are now empty, clean and neatly placed side by side. Waiting for…waiting for I don’t know what. There for no reason, other than the simple fact that I can’t let go. Sometimes I’m not good at letting go and this is my worse case of holding on. No matter how many months went by, I couldn’t pick them up. I couldn’t put them away. The thought of not seeing them every day when I come home makes me sadder than the realization that I am never going to come home to the sound of her four pattering paws ever again. It’s been an entire year since I’ve heard a tag jingle, a pant or her tapping toenails on tile. Tick, tick, tick. I use to find that noise so annoying! Now I pine for it.

Over 18 years of her being by my side, that’s a long time. I was just a kid when I got her. An 8 week old pup licked my face. It was love at first sight and the puppy breath sold me. I had to have her. So my father made her mine. Unknown to everyone, except me, this dog would go on to save my life when I was just 12-years-old. A story I’ve never told and probably will never tell. A story that would cause my family and friends great pain, but a story that would clearly show the vast importance and tremendous role a little dog had on a young boy’s life.

My father helped me bury her last spring, on day much like today. It was freezing rain mixed with some snow flurries. Although the calendar read “1st Day Of Spring”, the icy weather seemed rather fitting to be saying a final goodbye to my best friend. It was close to sunset and the ground was still frozen from the recent passing of a cold winter. The thud of the shovel hitting the hard earth, the echo still sticks with me. I stood holding the cardboard box, shielding the wind from whipping over it, as if it mattered. I looked on as my Dad tossed the initial shovelful of dirt by my feet. That single action caused an uncontrollable reaction in me. The grief immediately set in. I began bawling like a little girl and I don’t remember when the tears ever stopped flowing.

Death is a part of life. And so is change. These things I know. However, knowing them doesn’t make it easier. In fact, in some ways it makes it more difficult because we know we must accept, adapt and go on. I’ve accepted. I’m still adapting. And now I must move on. It’s time to fill that void in my life with a new furry friend. I’ve mourned long enough. I want to look at a dog and smile, rather than cry. I don’t want to feel like I’m “cheating” when I pet another dog. I don’t want people to think I’m weird for having dog bowls lying on my kitchen floor when there isn’t a dog in sight. I’m going to find a reason to have those dog bowls and a reason to feel happy when I come home at night. I’m getting a new puppy.

On the 1 year anniversary of my dog’s death, I allowed myself to hold a puppy in my arms once again. Puppy breath. It’s been a long time, but I remember it well. I will be getting a Bulldog pup. He’s too young to be separated from him Mom right now, so as I wait for his arrival into my home, I need to choose a name. Help me name my soon-to-be buddy by selecting the name you like best in the Voting Poll (listed on my sidebar). If you have any other names you would like to suggest for a male Bulldog, leave your suggestion in the comment section. If I had puppy breath, I would lick you with it as a show of thanks. Thanks.