It has been five weeks since my 16 month old dog Melfi was suddenly hit by a truck.

He hasn’t come back to me, even though I’ve wanted him to, if only in spirit. 

I heard that sometimes animals and other loved ones come back after their passing. I’ve shooed away other spirits when I’ve felt scared, but I wanted Melfi. 

He hasn’t come back.

His name is losing its liveliness. It’s disintegrating. It’s passing through my hands like grains of sand, and I want it to stop. I want to hold on to him, but there isn’t anything to hold on to. 

I come home and my bed is empty. For weeks I wanted him to lift his head and wag his tail. I wanted him to look at me with his calm animal eyes, the ones that had more sense than me. I wanted him to lean toward me to be petted. I wanted to tease him with chicken butt jokes, which I don’t think he ever liked. I wanted that connection, the kind where I didn’t have to say anything smart to win him over, where I could just be myself and even goofy, and he would still like me.

For weeks I wondered why he was buried in the backyard and whether we had buried him prematurely, but I knew we didn’t. I knew when I lifted his head, his skull was misshapen. There was blood in his ears. His gums were white. His eyes weren’t looking at me. His entire head was limp. Nothing about him was there. My strong, vivacious 16 month old dog was limp.

“His body is still warm,” my stepfather said, which I interpreted as an instruction.

“Leave me the f*** alone,” I wanted to say, but didn’t. I just wanted to be with my dog, and I felt like there was a clock ticking to bury him.

A few days into this tragedy, it hit me. My mother destroyed this dog’s life the same way she destroyed mine, except I didn’t die physically. She never told me that Melfi liked to chase after trucks. After his death, both my mother and stepfather uttered it. For me, it was the first time I had heard about it. My mother did not see the danger she put the dog in by not telling me, in the same way she didn’t see the harm she was doing to her own child. She just didn’t understand. It wasn’t in her awareness.

Melfi’s death was the first sudden loss in my life. At 16 months, how could I have known that the day before, when I took pictures of him napping on my bed, that they would be my last?

I recently involuntarily looked at a video of Melfi and I thought, how could I have known that he would be gone in less than six months? How could I have known that he would only live for two summers, that he would never see a real winter (and maybe that’s a good thing), that he would never grow old with me? I feel a sense of betrayal.

Why did you have to run after that truck, Melfi?

I haven’t gone to his grave. I haven’t purposefully looked at pictures or videos of Melfi. He lives in my heart, and I wouldn’t be able to take in reality.

I loved his name. I named him after the psychiatrist on the Sopranos- Dr. Melfi. I loved telling people that story if they asked. I long to call that name again.

My spouse, from whom I’m separated, got a new puppy. He wanted a companion, and he told me he felt more love from Mel than he did from anyone else in his life. Another dagger where there were already dagger marks. There is nothing wrong with the puppy, but I wanted Mel. I feel guilty for hugging the new dog, Cole. 

I wondered if Mel would be hurt. I didn’t want Mel to be hurt. I wanted Mel. 

I remember his face, his adult dog face. I like puppies, but I would rather have Mel.

I want to hold on to Mel, but he wants to let go.

Cole is more easy going. Mel ran into the barricades so hard that one day we took him to the emergency room at 11 pm on a Sunday. After hours of waiting and a $250 bill, we were told he might have neurological damage. He was only a few months old and we were mortified. We were told to keep him calm and avoid excessive movement. The next day, he was back to his normal self, running around as if nothing happened. He was the fastest dog at the dog park. I was proud of him. He was so much like me. He lived life to the fullest and strove for something greater. He wasn’t happy with the status quo.  He was curious, like me, and that is what ultimately did him in.

When we came home, Mel would jump on us. Cole comes out of his kennel when he feels like it. Melfi hated his kennel. Cole finds solace there. My spouse is amazed with Cole. My daughter has bonded with him too. In one picture, she is holding him and smiling. When I held Cole, I thought of Mel. It wasn’t Cole’s fault, but giving love to Cole felt like taking love away from Mel. 

Cole is like my spouse, but Melfi is like me.

One day, when I’m on my death bed (and I do hope it is a bed), I hope to see Mel again. Or, better yet, I hope Mel comes to me in the form of another dog.

We have some unfinished business.