The silence of absence

The hardest thing to bear about absence is the silence. And Rusty, I realized last night, was such a noisy dog! Much, much noisier than Geni.

Last night, I had a hard time going to sleep because I didn't hear his noises. I was always so attuned to his sounds, alert to any sign of distress or pain. So I got used to all his noises. His deep sighs after he'd turned around on his beloved bed enough times before he plopped down and made himself comfortable. His scratching of ears, or slurping of paws, or his loud snoring, or heavy breathing, or his rabies-tag clinking against his collar each time he moved.

Or his moans when he stretched, or his occasional hacking, or his very loud and long lapping at the water bowl in the kitchen (we often joked that he was more of a dromedary). Or his often-explosive farts, which used to make him spring up from the floor with surprise (and could've been used as chemical weapons). Or even the low, sad, whimpering sounds he was making more and more often lately.

Rusty is the closest being to myself, in terms of physicality, that I have lost. Other loved ones have died in my family: my grandfather many years ago, my grandmother on my mother's side when I was in college, and, more recently, my abuelita. But by the time they left, they were not as constant and tangible a presence in my life as Rusty has been for the past 13 years.

Each time I think of him there is this hollowness in my chest that I feel I could distill into pure, unadulterated grief. If I could distill the feeling, it would come out as a thick, indigo blue liquid, that glowed and smelled like loss. I know I can't compare his loss to the loss of a human child. But I imagine that this emptiness (if much worse) is what a mother might feel when she loses a teenage son, and Rusty was as close to that for me as I'll ever get.

Last night, before I finally fell asleep, I heard the tinkling of the chimes outside my window. It wasn't a windy night, and the tinkling had an odd insistence, like it wanted me to pay attention. Then the chime played a lovely, odd, melody for a few seconds, and then went still for the rest of the night.

As impossible as it is, I'm going to be Poe-esque and think that the chimes were touched by Rusty's spirit, on its way to meeting up with his awaiting wolf pack in eternity. That he came to say adiós to his mami. And that, wherever he is, he knows that he was the beloved dog-son of a loving, grieving mother, who will know no other kind of son.