Part three: “I'm here without you, baby; But you're still on my lonely mind"

I vigorously rub the eyelid of my now red right eyeball. Peeling back the lids, I search for the debris and find nothing. The cycle repeats until I flush the eye, put a warm washcloth on it, and ultimately take two allergy pills. I suspect it’s his dander.

Diego James with some of his toys.

For the past several weeks, I had saved the sheet from his crate, refusing to clean it. Instead, I kept it on the washing machine and sniffed it each time I ventured to the basement. If I couldn’t have him, I could bring my memories of him to life. I could hold him just one more time.

But the scent on his sheet changed. It became peculiar, odd, mutilated. It was no longer his smell, but a moldy version of a wet dog. I accept defeat and toss the sheet into the washer with the week’s towels.

I know I have to turn the page on the end of our proverbial chapter with him. I can’t keep rereading the last sentence, breathing in a funky scent, and reliving what can’t be. I know he’s OK, I had the best watching over him.

After we surrendered him to the breeder, I bawled. Lying in bed that night, the tears came hard and fast. I gasped for breath. My insides ached like cramps and I twisted into a fetal position. Before my other half came to me, I asked a favor of my dad. “Watch over him, please.” It began as a request and ended as a desperate plea.

That night, my dad appeared in my dreams. All of them. His presence was strong. The next day, after an exchange of texts between the breeder and my other half, I learned my canine baby had acclimated well.

A week later, I asked my dad to send some sort of sign that my sweet six-month-old American Bully was alright. The reply came fast and as a happy discovery as I, with my other half and my older canine baby, walked through the neighborhood. I found a dime on the shoulder of a busy road. I smiled. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Days later following a long Saturday afternoon at the New England fair, I laid under a blanket on our bed. He gently nudged my arm. “Mama,” he said. “He sent a text.”

I blinked several times; the voice of my other half brought me back to the present from my early autumn nap.

“Diego has a new home. He’s settling in with a family who loves him.” Diego’s new chapter began.