We lost Sam today. Forever. I mean, he died. I don’t know what time. I just know that when I woke up this morning around four, he seemed really over-heated. I found him lying in the bathtub — which makes sense for him. He knows that’s where water will come out. So I put water in the tub for him to lay in and cool off after eating.
Since it was so hot inside even with the windows open, I sent him and the other dogs outside a bit later to cool off. I should have checked on him. Everyone seemed fine, but I couldn’t see him. I assumed he was in their normal hangout spot in the cool dirt on the east side of the house.
He was there when I went out this afternoon. He was there. He was heavy and gone. They may say you lose so many ounces when you die, but those who carry you — and carry on your memory — would swear you were far more substantial in this world.
I guess I thought that after I stopped saying, “Things can’t get worse than this,” they would actually stop getting worse.
The night we first got home with Sam, we found him loaded with ticks. The “rescue” organization had let him become infested. He nearly died from a blood disease. I pulled maybe twenty ticks off him before we got him to the hospital. He was the most expensive $30 dog I’ve ever had. And I love the hell out of him. I’m going to miss him so.
All he ever wanted was to be touched. Your hand on his head or his paw was enough to satisfy. But that’s what he always wanted most — love.
This was so sudden. It makes no sense.
I learned from my former mother-in-law, a now-retired journalist and editor, that you don’t write, “passed away,” “gone,” or any other way of beating around the bush about someone’s death. They don’t “pass” anything. They don’t “go” anywhere. They die. They’re dead. It’s always so much harder to apply that rule when it’s someone you love, though.