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This is Oscar: He passed away yesterday. He was sixteen years old, an utter jerk, and my little buddy who I genuinely can't believe is gone. His absence hurts in ways I didn't expect. I know he had a very good, long life. I know he didn't fully understand things the way a person would. But I genuinely believe that lack of understanding makes the loss of a pet harder. They're a pure presence unlike anything or anyone else. They trust you, they make a home in your life, and they linger in every part of every day in ways that you take for granted. They drape a warm blanket across the cold corners of reality. Sometimes they pee on that blanket. Try not to get mad. Show them all the love you can, and hope your presence means as much to them as theirs does to you. When we first brought Oscar home I held him in one hand and marveled at how round his wobbly head was. As a pup he tried to walk under the coffee table (as he had hundreds of times before) only to bonk into it, as he had grown slightly overnight. He looked at me with wide eyes like, "Why did you make the table shorter?" He always had to be near a person. Always. Oscar couldn't sleep at night unless he was in a human bed nestled up against a person. If you stood still or sat for more than a few seconds he would either lay down on your foot or possessively put a paw on you. One time he staked out in the corner of the room to watch my family. After a while his head slowly drooped as he fell asleep sitting upright, then his head whipped back up quickly. He glanced around quickly, shaking off the sleep and making sure no one had left. He only nodded off while sitting up like that once in his entire life, so the memory is crystal clear. Oscar was a greedy goblin. He grabbed things with his surprisingly strong paws + legs instead of biting them, and would push you away when you went to pick something up from the ground. As greedy as he was, his fascination with people always prevailed. Every time we showed him a toy he ignored it, focusing on us and wagging his tail because we were paying attention to him. Every attempted session of fetch turned into ear scratches and belly rubs. He only barked a handful of times in his entire life. Oscar's go-to mode of communication was grumbling and sighing. It was like we were the hired help, and he was always complaining about the service. There was a distinctive "Phew!" sound he made while following a person who was doing a chore or cooking, as if he had just completed a monumental task. I often find myself mimicking his "Phew!" without even thinking about it. He was also a surprisingly loud snorer. It's shocking how the absence of all these sounds feels like a gut punch. When Oscar drank water it was always in the same drink-drink-drink pattern. Drink-drink-drink. Pause. Drink-drink-drink. When he finished he always sought me out to rub his wet face on my calf. As Oscar got older he slowed down quite a bit. A "walk" meant standing around and sniffing the air for a full minute, plodding off sideways for three or four steps when I wanted him to walk straight, then standing still again to think. This was my view of our action-packed adventures:  Oscar became mostly blind in his old age. He was able to notice lights but couldn't track much else, and often ran into things. When I went upstairs then came back down, his head would always be peeking around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, his big eyes trying to track me. Again, he couldn't stand to be alone. I keep expecting to see him, that hopeful look on his face as he looks up for me. Corin Tucker's Stalker fucked around with this message at 19:29 on Aug 8, 2021 |
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Aug 8, 2021 12:21
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| # ¿ May 8, 2024 04:31 |
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