He’s supposed to be here.

That’s what I keep thinking.  

He’s supposed to be under the covers right now. He likes to go under the covers, over the covers, under the covers, over the covers. He woke me up many nights, but I would do anything to have that back. I would do anything to hear his grunts again, to feel his head perched on my neck, to see him curled in a ball and his big eyes looking up at me. 

He was our dog, Melfi. Our 16 month old German Shorthair Pointer that was run over by a truck last Thursday. He died instantly. It wasn’t supposed to happen. I can’t help feeling like he’s supposed to be here.

In every way, he’s supposed to be here.

My husband took the rest of the day off from work and grieved in solitude. He was at his home, I in mine.

Our daughter cried as my step-father and I dug the grave. 

“You know what I learned from this?” she said. “That having a pet means you are going to one day lose it.”

This wasn’t the way I envisioned it. I envisioned another 10 years with this dog. I had thoughts of growing old with him. He had finally calmed down enough that I didn’t have to take him out twice a day. He was happy playing fetch and running on our lawn. I had no idea he chased after trucks. I found that out on the day he died. 

I can assign blame, but that won’t change anything. It won’t make anyone feel better. The people that knew didn’t think it was important to tell me.

I’ve had pets that died after a long sickness. This feels different. 

It feels like he should still be here, like I buried him when he should still be alive.

Our dog is gone because of human stupidity. Had I known he was chasing trucks, I would have trained the dog better to come on command. 

Had I known, I would have put up an electric fence around the property.

I would have taken steps to avert this tragedy.

He’s gone, and there is a vacuum where his warm body should be right now.

I’m afraid of him leaving my memory. I don’t want to forget his personality and his quirks- the way he slept on his back, the way he tried to reach me with his wet nose, the feel of his whiskers on my face, his beautiful paws, his grunts when he shifted positions in bed. I don’t want to forget the way my daughter and he danced together, the almost daily dances and clapping to peanut butter jelly butt songs. I thought I would have him for another 10 years. I wanted to grow old with him. 

I’m holding on to a ghost, and yet, it feels like he is moving away from me. The phone call I received from my mother about the tragedy is growing more distant.

I am losing him to a spot memory, and I don’t want to. I want him with me.

I want him back.