sinew
multiply
Arcadia
plug
inconclusive
Seamus is dead.
These are the first words she hears. An echo, but far more clear than they were yesterday, when they were spoken, the first words she'd heard. Yesterday, they had jolted her awake, but their meaning was muddled by confusion. Today, the words pin her in place, paralyze her.
Seamus is dead.
What?
He died last night.
I can move him, if you want.
Halfway down the stairs, her head had cleared the ceiling; she'd looked to the left and he was there, stretched out on his side with his eyes closed. She'd knelt beside him, sobbing, and stroked his face. He didn't move, he didn't respond; Seamus was dead.
She'd panicked. I didn't get to say goodbye. I don't want to say goodbye! I want to tell him I love him. I want him to open his eyes, to get up and have breakfast, to get his morning butt scratch, to do the special trick he taught himself, to bark his fool head off, to chase the cats, to have another Best Day Ever!
That he was laying there, that she could see him and touch him was wrong, it was cruel. Because he was gone. The dog she loved had been replaced by an empty twin. It was like a sick joke.
He died without me. Did he suffer? I should have been here. He shouldn't have died without me by his side, to comfort him. He shouldn't have died.
Seamus shouldn't have died. For the last couple of years, she'd been preparing for the death of his brother, Monkey, who was a year older and fading. Monkey had always been sickly—prone to ear infections and rashes, he spent a lot of time at the vet's. He'd had an allergic reaction to a rabies vaccine. He'd needed surgery after swallowing a rock. He'd developed severe arthritis and needed help getting up. He had trouble walking. He was incontinent. And he was deaf.
This summer, he'd started behaving strangely, too, wandering into the tall grass bordering the yard to lay down. When she searched him out, he'd move to another spot. As if he wanted to be left alone. As if he wanted to die. She'd thought about euthanasia, but decided against it unless he was in distress. She couldn't bring herself to make an appointment for his death, let alone carry him to it—not while he still had tail wags and face licks in him.
Seamus, on the other hand, had always been healthy and exuberant. An inelegant, big-mouthed goofball who threw himself around, at twelve years old, he still acted like a puppy. She was fond of saying, "They say labs don't settle down until the age of five. We're still waiting."
So Monkey's illnesses had commanded most of her attention while Seamus had aged on the sidelines, discreetly, his approach to death invisible.
It felt like a mistake.
Monkey resented being cared for. Independent and prone to sulking, he'd always done what he pleased. Indifferent to Seamus, he rarely played with him. Then again, Monkey knew the proper names of all their toys while Seamus knew the word "toy". Finicky, Monkey weaselled Seamus out of the best sleeping spots. And Seamus complied willingly. He had nothing but respect and adoration for his older brother, the brother who tolerated him. They were complete opposites.
Seamus had been her faithful sidekick, following her everywhere she went. It was Seamus whose excited barks had greeted her each morning, and Seamus whose tail wagged just because she'd looked at him and smiled. It was Seamus who had stood over her, growling, when a nightmare caused her to whimper in her sleep. And it was Seamus who had died, in the middle of the night, without her, his best friend.
It was a mistake.
Seamus is dead.
The day she'd heard those words spoken was a day without time. The sun had risen, moved across the sky and set, but it took forever, as if time had died, too. As if time had been replaced by pain.
Forever is time enough to realize many things. Like no matter how long the day of pain lasts, there will be worse to come. Forever is a day of death, a day dedicated to Seamus, to burying him, to grieving, a day when life is on pause. What follows will be days of living without him. Days punctuated by void, days of navigating a ruined home, a home missing its happiest member but filled with signs of his recent presence. The area rug at the foot of the stairs will forevermore be straight, greeting her each morning with a slap in the face. The muddy streaks his paws had left on the patio door will remain. Until the next rainfall washes them away.
She'd had time to think of everything.
I should mark this day on the calendar. July 30th, 2017.
How can you think such a morbid thought?
But the urge was strong.
Why?
Because I'll forget. If I don't mark it, years from now I'll be left not knowing when he died—which day, which month, which year.
So what? Why does it matter?
Because Seamus mattered.
At the end of the long day, with freshly formed and ruptured blisters on both her hands and heart, she'd stood at the window, looking out into the dark sky when another realization had struck her.
Seamus will be spending the night in the backyard. Alone. Apart from the family, like an outcast.
Tears had filled her eyes.
Seamus is dead.
Sinew, multiply, Arcadia, plug, inconclusive—these words don't matter.
Seamus is dead.
These are the only words she hears, an echo, and she lays in bed, frozen, keenly aware that when she pulls the bedsheets back, she'll be greeted by the loudest silence she's ever known.
decisive
enquiry
folk
happened
inside
multiply
Arcadia
plug
inconclusive
Seamus is dead.
These are the first words she hears. An echo, but far more clear than they were yesterday, when they were spoken, the first words she'd heard. Yesterday, they had jolted her awake, but their meaning was muddled by confusion. Today, the words pin her in place, paralyze her.
Seamus is dead.
What?
He died last night.
I can move him, if you want.
Halfway down the stairs, her head had cleared the ceiling; she'd looked to the left and he was there, stretched out on his side with his eyes closed. She'd knelt beside him, sobbing, and stroked his face. He didn't move, he didn't respond; Seamus was dead.
She'd panicked. I didn't get to say goodbye. I don't want to say goodbye! I want to tell him I love him. I want him to open his eyes, to get up and have breakfast, to get his morning butt scratch, to do the special trick he taught himself, to bark his fool head off, to chase the cats, to have another Best Day Ever!
That he was laying there, that she could see him and touch him was wrong, it was cruel. Because he was gone. The dog she loved had been replaced by an empty twin. It was like a sick joke.
He died without me. Did he suffer? I should have been here. He shouldn't have died without me by his side, to comfort him. He shouldn't have died.
Seamus shouldn't have died. For the last couple of years, she'd been preparing for the death of his brother, Monkey, who was a year older and fading. Monkey had always been sickly—prone to ear infections and rashes, he spent a lot of time at the vet's. He'd had an allergic reaction to a rabies vaccine. He'd needed surgery after swallowing a rock. He'd developed severe arthritis and needed help getting up. He had trouble walking. He was incontinent. And he was deaf.
This summer, he'd started behaving strangely, too, wandering into the tall grass bordering the yard to lay down. When she searched him out, he'd move to another spot. As if he wanted to be left alone. As if he wanted to die. She'd thought about euthanasia, but decided against it unless he was in distress. She couldn't bring herself to make an appointment for his death, let alone carry him to it—not while he still had tail wags and face licks in him.
Seamus, on the other hand, had always been healthy and exuberant. An inelegant, big-mouthed goofball who threw himself around, at twelve years old, he still acted like a puppy. She was fond of saying, "They say labs don't settle down until the age of five. We're still waiting."
So Monkey's illnesses had commanded most of her attention while Seamus had aged on the sidelines, discreetly, his approach to death invisible.
It felt like a mistake.
Monkey resented being cared for. Independent and prone to sulking, he'd always done what he pleased. Indifferent to Seamus, he rarely played with him. Then again, Monkey knew the proper names of all their toys while Seamus knew the word "toy". Finicky, Monkey weaselled Seamus out of the best sleeping spots. And Seamus complied willingly. He had nothing but respect and adoration for his older brother, the brother who tolerated him. They were complete opposites.
Seamus had been her faithful sidekick, following her everywhere she went. It was Seamus whose excited barks had greeted her each morning, and Seamus whose tail wagged just because she'd looked at him and smiled. It was Seamus who had stood over her, growling, when a nightmare caused her to whimper in her sleep. And it was Seamus who had died, in the middle of the night, without her, his best friend.
It was a mistake.
Seamus is dead.
The day she'd heard those words spoken was a day without time. The sun had risen, moved across the sky and set, but it took forever, as if time had died, too. As if time had been replaced by pain.
Forever is time enough to realize many things. Like no matter how long the day of pain lasts, there will be worse to come. Forever is a day of death, a day dedicated to Seamus, to burying him, to grieving, a day when life is on pause. What follows will be days of living without him. Days punctuated by void, days of navigating a ruined home, a home missing its happiest member but filled with signs of his recent presence. The area rug at the foot of the stairs will forevermore be straight, greeting her each morning with a slap in the face. The muddy streaks his paws had left on the patio door will remain. Until the next rainfall washes them away.
She'd had time to think of everything.
I should mark this day on the calendar. July 30th, 2017.
How can you think such a morbid thought?
But the urge was strong.
Why?
Because I'll forget. If I don't mark it, years from now I'll be left not knowing when he died—which day, which month, which year.
So what? Why does it matter?
Because Seamus mattered.
At the end of the long day, with freshly formed and ruptured blisters on both her hands and heart, she'd stood at the window, looking out into the dark sky when another realization had struck her.
Seamus will be spending the night in the backyard. Alone. Apart from the family, like an outcast.
Tears had filled her eyes.
Seamus is dead.
Sinew, multiply, Arcadia, plug, inconclusive—these words don't matter.
Seamus is dead.
These are the only words she hears, an echo, and she lays in bed, frozen, keenly aware that when she pulls the bedsheets back, she'll be greeted by the loudest silence she's ever known.
decisive
enquiry
folk
happened
inside
] words. Worse, one of them wasn't even spelled correctly! As punishment, I shall now play with myself. (Self-flagellation-like.)
