I still hear you Tboz. And its hard.
There are spaces where you should be that you are not. But I hear you. I hear your footsteps on the tile, I hear the jingle jangle of your collar, I hear you scratching at the door. And it is hard.
I wonder if there were more things I could have done for you. Could I have played with you more? Could I have taken you on more walks? Could I have not stayed away from home so long?
And then the terrible comes in. Could I have saved you? Did I give up too soon? What if you were misdiagnosed? Could steroids have helped you?
The question comes up so often during my days and even more so at night - how am I going to get through this? And the answer is, simply so, because I have to.