In Memory Of Milo

It has become very empty and very quiet in my house. It is never boisterous but now it's silent; the kind of silence where all the sounds that usually reside in the background, unnoticed, have now taken center stage. All I hear is the ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the refrigerator. 

It hasn't been a good year so far. Immediately after the clock struck midnight and the date turned to 2022 my dog, Milo, was struck with a phantom aliment. I would soon find out from multiple x-rays at the veterinary clinic, this aliment came in form of mineralized spots that pinpricked this small dog's spine. They looked so insignificant on the x-rays but they made Milo constantly cry that horrible, pitiful yelp animals utter when they are in pain. They made him cower and tremble. They made him lose his appetite, made him constipated, made him loose himself. 

I fed Milo so many pills to try and stop these terrible ailments. I cut them in half, in quarters, stuffed them into cheese, into bits of chicken and beef so that he would eat them. I squirted laxatives into his food bowl so he could go to the bathroom, I carried him up and down the stairs so he wouldn't hurt his back and I watched him like a hawk and swooped down on him every time he was poised to jump onto the couch. There were nearly daily trips to the vet. I didn't mind doing any of it. I would do it all, forever, if only these things cured my dog's pain. They didn't. 

The entire month of January was filled with outbursts of tears and sobs but I never cried harder than the day I took Milo to be euthanized. They wrapped his small leg in a bandage, poked an absurdly large needle into it and he was gone. My sweet boy was gone. 

Walking into my house afterwards, I wailed like a banshee. The townhouse next to mine, the one that shares a wall with my house, was having an open house. I joked that all the attendees must have thought the place was haunted. I put all Milo's things into trash bags and stuck them in the garage. Without all his pillows and toys, my house looks as empty and inhabitable as the one next door.  

This story doesn't have a happy ending. I am angry my sweet dog is gone. I am mad that he was robbed of his life at age 6, that I only got three years with him, that this whole wretched thing was so viciously unfair. 

Soon I will get Milo's ashes and scatter them on his favorite spot to explore - the shallow ravine by my house. If I'm lucky enough to get a new dog - and one day I will - I already know what I will name it. Oli M. Laskey, in honor of that wonderful dachshund I was privileged to spend a little time with.