Without Sophie

It is not even a week. I miss her more every day.

I miss her scrambling up the stairs to poke her head around the shower curtain whenever she heard the shower.

The first time she nudged the curtain aside, I said: “Be careful, you’ll get all soapy.” Soapy. Sophie. There it was, her new name, perfect. It just clicked.

I miss the sound of her breathing at night.

I miss reaching out of bed to stroke her softly, reassuring myself that she was still there. She would shift a bit, seemingly reassured herself.

I really miss the snoring.

Saturday morning, and Sunday and Monday mornings, I forgot she was gone. I expected to hear her lift her head, but… silence. what? where? then the brutal ambush of loss, pain, all over again.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I remembered. It hurt even more.

I miss rumpling her jowly jowls, scratching her ears, shifting my weight back against her when she leaned into me all crazy wiggle-butt.

I miss the physical reality of a 100-pound dog – the massive wrinkly head, the broad chest, the big muffin feet, the solid, swinging, happy tail.

I miss how she was always underfoot or no further than six feet away – hanging out in her crate, or in the middle of the floor, in the middle of everything.

I miss leaning over to rub her shoulders, give her a treat, take away a licked-out yogurt container.

I miss the jingle of her collar when she shook that blocky head, flinging drool in all directions.

I miss the funny way her front legs angled out then up when she stretched out to let the cool tile floor suck the heat from her easily-overheated body.

She was only mine for 18 months. She sure took up a lot of space.

I miss her sentient warmth in the house.

I miss her response.

I already miss the mountains in the rearview mirror.

I will miss people adoring her, calling out from their cars: “what a beautiful dog!” I learned to say “thank you!” as if I had something to do with the way she looked.

I will miss walking out of Wegman’s to see her brighten in the car:

Anxiety morphing first into recognition and relief, then on to simple excitement… the worried arch relaxing out of her eyebrows, her wrinkly face softening, jowly lips pulling a little up and back into a happy, sweet smile.

I will miss jostling her into the head halter that helped contain her in public:

Leaning into the car, wrapping my arms around her massiveness, body-blocking my 100-pound copper-golden toddler who could barely wait to start the next adventure. Unclipping this, buckling that, attaching leads, pulling here, fussing there, and the whole time she’s bobbing her head, peeking over my shoulders, impatiently patient.

She was so proud to show off what she knew – how to sit to be petted, and “down” and “touch.”

I will miss giving those little lectures on the breed:

“What breed is he?” they’d ask. Always “he” – “what a big boy!” “what a handsome guy!”

I’d say, “Sophie’s a Dogue de Bordeaux, like a Turner and Hooch dog. Dogue means Mastiff in French, so she’s really a Mastiff from Bordeaux. They also call them French Mastiffs.”

I will miss them noticing then her saggy nipples and saying: “So she’s had puppies recently?”

“Ah, no,” I’d say. “I’ve had her over a year, and they haven’t gotten any smaller. She’s a rescue dog, she must have had a bunch of puppies. She’s got all that extra skin on her belly, she could probably use a tummy tuck.”

They never wanted to hear about the breed’s short life span, the cancers, the behavioral baggage of a rescue dog, the differences between abandonment and abuse…

I miss those beautiful, beautiful copper amber eyes and that massive forehead working together to express so much – doubt and tentativeness at first; then trust, enthusiasm, delight.

I miss her sweet soul. My heart misses her sweet soul.

 

The whole house misses her sweet soul.

 

It’s so empty now, silent, unmoored, drifting…

 

Without Sophie.

 

________

Writing Through the Rough Spots. September 2017.