January 23, 2008:

I never really understood the term “inconsolable” before last Wednesday.

It always seemed as though Cassie and I had a world of time together — even up to the last few hours of her too-short life. She was my puppy, my baby, my girl, and to imagine life without her at my side was impossible.

And yet it happened anyway. I lifted and carried her down the steps of the garage and placed her in the van, she too tired. and when she fell from the bucket seat, I caught her and held her, massaging her behind her ear so that her head fell into my hand and to the side… for the last time. I buried my face in her fur and sang “you are my sunshine” while trying not to cry.

And then dad carried her in and I began to sob. Our time was waning too, too fast. We were ushered back to a room, dad placing her gingerly on the counter before seeing the blanket that had been laid out for her on the floor.

Time was too short, too unkind.

We all huddled around her, reaching for her, sobbing. It all moved so fast, too fast, before the vet walked in, tying that damned tourniquet around her front left leg. I gasped, my sobs grew suddenly more frantic and desperate, and Cassie sat up as the vet drove the syringe in. She fell. And I lost all control as I looked into her now glassy and lifeless eyes, wishing her back to life and my side. I laid over her, grasping at the folds of her fur, sobbing, inconsolable, lost in grief for an unknown length of time before I was the last one crying and the last one on the ground.

I vaguely heard mom saying it was time to leave, but I only gripped her more forcefully. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t leave her when she had never left me. Not once. It stunk of betrayal and injustice. I couldn’t, I refused to accept that this was the last time I would hold her and pet her. I couldn’t move.

Eventually someone lifted me to my feet. My knees were weak and wobbling and I stepped back into the wall, my eyes steadfast on her, now not wanting her out of my sight if I was unable to touch her. And then I was turned and removed from the room — I kept stopping, turning back, wanting to go back to her.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

Somehow, I was outside. I looked frantically around me, turning, turning, trying to go back in.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

And then I was in the van, sobbing, lost, wretched, spent, inconsolable. My heart, for the first time, was utterly and completely broken.

And then we were home, my sisters walked inside, but I couldn’t move.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

I continued to sob. Mom said something about crying where it was warm, but I couldn’t move. But somehow, inexplicably, I had opened the door and stumbled out, blind with tears, into my dad’s arms, our sobs echoing through the neighborhood that had never seemed so empty and lifeless.

Once inside I moved to the office, climbing under the old writer’s desk to lay in a ball — the last place she had been.

And I sobbed.

Emptiness, loneliness, brokenness, pure grief, anguish … inconsolable.

Mom and sisters moved on, laughing again. Dad and I sobbed wildly.

Chelo came. I pushed him away time and time again. I only wanted her.

We all slept in mom and dad’s room, I the only one sobbing, aside from Maddie, who wanted to sleep on the bed.

Inconsolable.

Betrayal.

Loss.

Grief.

Pain.

Emptiness.

Utterly broken and missing heart.

I awoke crying. Showered sobbing. Stumbled down the stairs in anguish.

All I wanted was her.

And I was inconsolable.