In memory of Monty Patrikios, the embodiment of the purest soul of all; that of a canine.
I’m always cold now you’re gone.
He’s been gone for six days. Six whole days.
He was sick for ten days, including the Friday night. Ten whole days.
I had dreamt of him for three nights in a row and one again on Sunday. Four nights all together. Six, ten, four….I mull over the days, the times, Friday, Sunday, Monday; but it doesn’t change one thing.
He is dead forever.
I was never the kind of person to need friends. I was quite content as a young child to play for hours on end in my room, in my world. I didn’t need toys that lit up and made noise. Often, all I wanted was a cardboard box and some scissors.
I don’t know why I’m scared.
We got him when I was two years old. He was the best toy of all. He lit up, but not in the fluorescent manner that the electronic gadgets did. He lit up from the inside. He glowed. In his always bright eyes I could see my world. I could see my friend.
I don’t know why the feeling won’t leave.
We grew up together. I couldn’t and still cannot remember the earliest days of our companionship, but it doesn’t matter. I have memories to fill up the banks of any mind. I have memories that will never fade, memories that will constantly burn. I have moments and quirks and inane little facts.
I don’t have him though.
I don’t know why I don’t have him.
When I would go running, the wind would lash my face and send my hair in all directions. I could hear him beside me, trotting along rhythmically. He was so proud, his little curly chest protruding as he strode onwards. I remember once we came across a gigantic German Shepard, a positively wolf-like creature, and the size of the beast didn’t seem to matter to him. He marched up to the mighty canine and barked his assertive, and somewhat gruff, bark.
He would’ve liked to think he was the biggest.
Sometimes, when we were running together, he would want to stop and sniff this pole, then interrogate this bush. Then perhaps he’d like to walk over to the other side of the path and scratch this twig. To be quite frank, it gave me the shits.
Here I was, a teenage girl with a teenage girl conscience, doing what I thought everybody should. I was attempting exercise. Inside I hated exercising. I didn’t hate running with him, though. I had found the perfect distraction. I had found a loophole to immerse myself in, thus providing me with a façade of genuine give-a-damn.
I know why I don’t run anymore.
I always could hide like no one else. Whether that was physically hiding in a place so unnoticeable that I could have Mum hunting for hours, or hiding inside myself as I drifted away from here and now. I could always retreat into my world, my head. I could be anything in my world.
I know why people hide. They hide so that they can be found, even if they think that isn’t the truth. But it is. Somewhere inside they just want someone to see them, see their pain.
I don’t know why no one can find me.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be alone. Suddenly, I dread the day I will begin my solitude. I have only the stories in my head to tell over and over, in quiet desperation that they will bring me solace.
When I was sad, his radiant brown eyes would search for the trouble in mine. When I was happy, the years fell behind his dancing feet. He was wise, he was foolish, he was a jester and a king. He was a guardian and he was a gift. He was my friend, and I will never forget him.
I ran again, just to see if I could. The wind chilled my face and froze the fresh tears. Only the sounds of my feet pounding against the path resonated through the tree covered street. No one ran beside me, on my gradual progression to emptiness. No one ever will. I am cold and silent like the street.
© Copyright 2016 Bonnie Jackson. All rights reserved.