I had a dream about Lexi the other night. My dad’s dog Neo was there, too, and they were both puppies again. We played tug like we always used to, and when I squished her she got mad at me (also like she always used to).
Neo was about a year old when we got Lexi, and the two of them used to play together in our backyard. Neo was a huge German shepherd, and he could fit most of baby Lexi’s body in his mouth. He would flip her over and she’d paw at his muzzle, grring at him. They both liked to dig holes, so in the summer Neo would dig a hole and Lexi would “help” by laying down in it. We had to say goodbye to Neo almost two years ago, so I like to think they are running and digging and barking with each other wherever dog souls go when they leave this earth.
Lexi liked to dig right up until the end. Most corgis aren’t diggers, but Lexi sure was. She would paw at the dirt with reckless abandon, getting it everywhere, including all over her fur and nose. I’m not sure she ever had a goal in mind—sometimes if it was hot she’d unearth the top layer of dirt to get to the cooler layers beneath, but mostly she just dug.
The first month of not having her was difficult, but I’ve been missing her a lot these past few weeks. I’m not sure why it’s been hitting me so hard lately, but every little thing reminds me of her. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I still expect her to be on the bed between us. She would raise her head up and look up at me to make sure everything was okay before falling back asleep.
Jaina doesn’t bark when we get home. She’s always at the door with her ears back and her tail wagging furiously, but she doesn’t vocalize other than maybe a happy whine. Lexi always started barking as soon as she heard the car door shut—and she kept barking until she was good and ready to stop. My parents’ shepherds bark like maniacs when anyone gets home (including me if I’m visiting), so it’s kind of weird that Jaina doesn’t.
D.J. and I have been spending a lot of time with Jaina since June. Taking her for lots of walks, making sure she gets plenty of play time, spoiling her with trips to the frozen yogurt place, taking her out to dinner with us, things like that. I know there are moments when she misses Lexi, too. I brought Lexi’s bed down from the third floor, and I watched Jaina sniff it. I saw the recognition of Lexi’s scent in her eyes and body language, and then she laid down next to the bed for a few minutes.
I spend a few minutes with Lexi’s ashes every day, and trace the impression her little corgi paw made in the clay. I still can’t help buy cry when I think about her big round eyes imploring me for another treat. But even when I miss her so fiercely it feels like there’s a supermassive black hole in my chest, I’m happy, too. Happy that we got to share each other’s lives, happy for her companionship and loyalty, happy for all the adventures we had, the mountains we climbed together.
The intense loss I feel is an indication of how strong our bond was, how much we went through together. One of my college professors once said that grief never goes away—you just stop feeling it so strongly every second of every day. You still feel it, and it’s always there, but the time between moments of grief becomes longer the further away you get from it. But, it’s still there. That always rang true to me.
So I let myself have my time with Lexi every day, and I let myself cry, and I let myself miss her. It’s the best thing I can do for myself.