Please excuse any and all errors.

Two Years

I miss you Mick.

And though it's been almost two years, there are still days when I wonder what it would be like if you were still here.

There are still days when I wish that we had caught your illness sooner, and that we had the money to treat you.

There are days when I'll empty the lint trap on the drying machine and see a strand or two of your brown and white fur.

There are some days when I'll watch Harley trot into my bedroom, and I'll suddenly get mad because he's not you.

There are days when I'll look out the backdoor, or step onto the backyard porch, and I'll look at your grave. The sad thing is that the only reason I know where you're buried is because I memorized the spot.

Why don't we have a marker for you? It's not because we have forgotten about you, or have replaced you with Harley (certainly not!)

I suppose it's not a big deal. . . We took down Brandi's marker a long time ago. . .

But still.

I don't even put flowers out there for you anymore.

There's nothing on the ground that would make a person ask, "What's that for?"

It's like you're not even there. . .

If only you weren't there, weren't buried, weren't dead.

Life would be so much better.

Sure, I don't have much to complain about, anyway.

But I do have the fact that you're dead to be sad about.

I suppose happiness should come with the sadness.

Happiness at the memories that you gave us.

You would rub your face into the ground when we sprayed any fragrance near you.

You once tore a hole through the metal dog kennel in the backyard.

You would sleep by my side on my bed, cramming me against the wall, literally all night long.

You would wag your tail at the mere sight of me stirring under my blankets in the morning.

You'd make your rounds, almost every night, to each of our bedrooms to make sure we were okay.

It's amazing that you still did this, even when you were nothing but bones and a swollen belly.

It's also a shame that the last memories I have of you are the memories where you're in obvious pain.

And the last image of you in my head, the last video, is of your eyes zoning out and your head slowly lowering itself towards the cold metallic table in the veterinarian's office.

You were so scared when they shaved your arm and stuck the needle into your skin. . .

I know it's been almost two years, but there are still days when I simply miss you and need you to be here.

I love you, Mickey.