- 3 years ago
Diesel is dead.
My sweet, innocent, snuggly, licky, fluffy, floppy eared, luppy-puppy is dead.
He’s not even six months old. He’s still a puppy. Still a baby.
He loves chicken scraps and crackers. He cuddles our slippers when he naps in the afternoon. He steals my socks and tries to bury them under our bed covers. His tail’s always wagging. His ears perk up at MJ’s name.
We taught him to sit, to stay. He would try and lick my face if I blew him a kiss. He cuddles with us on the couch. He comes for walks with us. He loves his tummy being rubbed.
He’s just learned to wee outside. He chews my gumboots. He picks up his water bowel and carries it around, leaving a trail of water all over the floor. MJ washes him in the shower with him, because the hose water is cold.
I love him. MJ loves him. He loves us. We’re his family.
Diesel, a few weeks after we got him, playing with MJ.
Diesel, two weekends ago, off for a walk.
Last Thursday, our puppy, Diesel, died.
We don’t know why. We think he was sick. He’d been tired and thirsty over the previous weekend but was fine Monday and Tuesday; stealing socks, digging holes and chasing chickens. He spent the Wednesday sleeping with me on the couch, not as energetic and playful as normal, but he does have days like that – it’s not unusual. He ate most of his dinner before bed, wore his little red coat to keep him warm.
And then he died.
While we were snuggled up in our warm bed together, Diesel was dying. Was he in pain. Was he lonely. Was he sad. Did he miss us. I have no idea.
I’ve spent hours crying. I can’t sleep and when I do I dream of him. I’m so sad.
I just keep expecting to see him running towards me, pink tongue hanging out, floppy ears flapping around, with his giant paws, looking all uncoordinated, adorable and happy.
But that’s never going to happen.