I’ve been encased in grey. On July 2, I put down my dog, Toby. Always a tough decision, I struggled for the weeks leading up to that day, and I’ve been in mourning since then.
It is the peak of the summer season here. Sunny, warm, swim-worthy days. Farmers’ markets everywhere, with delicious
blueberries and cherries. Every lake and every beach is beckoning. Art,
theater, and music events are everywhere. But I am grey. Michigan
Toby was far from perfect. She rarely came when I called. She would run off given the slightest opportunity. She insisted on having her spot on the sofa. All these behavior faults were entirely due to my inability to be the boss.
But Toby was a happy dog. And she loved me. And I loved her. I was in love with her. I was her slave, her doorman, her doormat.
Several dozen times a day I would lavish words of affection: I love you the most. You are my all time favorite girl dog ever. My lovest bugest. Tubbs. Squiggly wiggly giggly biggly diggly duggly. Sweet pea. Sweetums. Heart bug. Love bug.
I was a total fool for her. And now I am grey. I expected her demise to trouble me, but I imagined more drama. I know this fog will lift, but I hope not too soon. For now, I want to be grey.