This is the view from where he lays now, Simba. He who once laid within the confines of my home for fourteen years.
I miss him still so much sometimes it's consuming.
"Just a dog", some might say, but honestly, so much more than that.
The thing is, the sirens. They startle me now. Big A and I look at one another when we hear one and let the pain go unspoken, each of us retreating to our corners to cry. For once upon a time, for many, many years, if we heard Simba howl, we knew that a siren would follow within a minute. We have no warnings now, just the loud, clamoring sound, resonating, reminding: He is gone, he is gone, he is gone.
I want him back. I want to, just one more time, give him a belly rub. To massage behind his ears and count to ten, him never making it to eight before he dropped on the ground, the sensation so wonderful to him.
I want him back. Just one more time, to try to get him to shake. One time, in fourteen years, he mastered that. I know it was just a fluke; he wasn't smart, remember? But still, just one more time to try and then relent and give him a treat anyway.
I can't speak of him yet, without saying, "I can't talk about this" and sobbing. I sit here typing, uncontrollably crying--taking a break every other word to remind myself to breathe, I miss him that much.
I want to think that he sees that view from where his body now rests, and yet I want to think that he sees us and knows how much we want him back, how he still lives within me, how sometimes, I'm still calling his name, then remembering that he is gone, I grasp my chest to force the air back in. I want him to know that the ache from his loss renders me nearly breathless sometimes; I loved him that much. I want him to know that I remember.
Simba: God, I miss you, and the view from where you lay is where my part of me will reside always.