In the morning of the night
When I woke to find you gone
I knew your distant devil
Must be draggin’ you along
- Melissa Etheridge
A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.
- Mohandas K. Gandhi
In the dark light of morning, this house feels empty. And quiet. Far too quiet.
I’d usually awaken to Sundance curled up on top of the covers between my legs. When I awoke, he’d hop out of bed and follow me to the kitchen. By the time we were halfway through the dining room, he’d be talking to me, letting me know (as if I could have forgotten) that it was time for his breakfast. Though I’d still be groggily trying to figure out which end was up and locate a light switch, Sundance wanted his breakfast and he wanted it NOW. That I immediately complied only served to demonstrate how thoroughly I’d managed to spoil him and how tightly he had me wrapped around his tiny little paw.
The routine was so unpredictable and unchanging that I could- and often did- do it in my sleep. Feed Sundance, make coffee while he eats, let him out after he finishes, let him back in 5-10 minutes later. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. I’d be sitting on the couch, drinking my coffee and reading The Oregonian when he’d announce himself at the front door. I’d look up to see his out-of-focus ginger-hued form through the slightly opaque windows, his impatient pacing back and forth serving as a signal that he wanted back in NOW. Being the sucker I am, I’d bounce right up and let him in. Then he’d head back to the bedroom and curl up with Erin, who’d invariably still be asleep. Later, when I’d wake Erin up, Sundance would look at me askance and chirp something that sounded strangely like “Jeez, what does a guy have to do to get some sleep around here?”
This morning there was none of that. This house, never a noisy place in the morning, seems WAY too quiet. I can hear myself think, and the rhythm of my breathing seems audible in a way I haven’t noticed before. Sitting in the living room in the morning means being enveloped in a silence I haven’t known before. It’s not that Sundance was noisy, but the rhythm of our mornings had a low-level rattle and hum that was as comforting as it was familiar. Now that’s gone, and the silence feels as tangible as it does oppressive.
Sundance’s food and water dishes are gone. I can look at where they sat on the floor near the back door and almost see an outline imprinted on the floor. Or perhaps on my memory. His wet food is no longer on the top shelf in the refrigerator, as familiar and predictable in it’s location as the yogurt that sat next to it. Suddenly, the refrigerator just looks…empty.
It’s going to take some effort getting used to my new and more solitary morning routine. I’ll adapt eventually…if only because there’s no other option. Right now the silence and the solitude are as burdensome as they are unwanted. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this…was it?
I feel numb and sad and rather adrift. I suppose that will happen when you lose a friend.
Three of my garden gnomes now serve as silent sentinels, standing guard over Sundance’s final resting place. Perhaps when winter turns to spring and the pain and sense of loss have dulled I’ll plant something there that can serve as a fitting tribute. Now, though, it’s just a sad and depressing wet mound of freshly turned soil, the final destination of a friend whose personality and predictability brightened my days and helped make this house a home.
Last night, Erin and I went downtown and saw Woody Allen and his New Orleans Jazz Band in concert. As enjoyable as it was, I couldn’t clear my mind of seeing Sundance’s stiff, lifeless body lying in front of the door to the basement. I couldn’t not think about digging a hole in the backyard garden in a cold rain, shoveling the dirt over his corpse, and then numbly sitting in a chair as the rain soaked through my clothes. I hope that in time the memory of how his life ended and how we found him will fade. I hope that in time I’ll remember more of the things that made him special and made our time together memorable. I hope that in time this won’t hurt so much.
I’ll try to be back tomorrow with the usual silliness. My heart’s just not in it today.
