Tasha

It’s been three days since she left, and I still don’t know what to do without her.

I don’t know how to move through a day without someone to care for. Without her soft breath beside me. Without her eyes on me like I was the most important thing in the world.

On her last morning, she never took her eyes off me. She was asking me to tell her it would be okay. And I tried—I did. I told her I loved her. That I was right there. I knew it was time. She was sicker than I realized. Letting her go was the only choice.

But is it ever really okay?

Right now it feels like it will never be. This ache—the shape of her in my day, in my arms, in my heart—it won’t be filled. I may learn to move around it, to protect it, to carry it. But the Tasha-sized hole in me is forever.

Tasha.
Tasha Bear.
Tay-Bay.
Tays to the Bays.
TayBaySayDay.

She was my familiar. Not just a pet. Not just a companion. She was the one constant through years of upheaval.

Especially these last five years, she was never more than a few feet from me. We had our own language—of looks, sounds, small gestures. It was symbiotic. I knew what she needed. She knew what I needed before I could name it.

Sweet Baby Girl.
Baby Girl Dog.
Sweet Girl.
My Love.
Sweetness.
Sweet Mama.
Mama Bear.

She was my other through the long, grinding undoing.

Every morning, she nudged me awake with her wet nose and soft breath. A reason to get out of bed. To put her needs first. Every night, she was the last face I saw before sleep.

She steadied me when nothing else could. She reminded me I was still needed, still loved, still here.

My Heart.
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie.
The Sweetness of the Sweetness.
Foodshadow.
Flat Dog.
The Flattest of Dogs.

We got through it all together—divorce, illness, isolation, doubt. She stayed with me while I unraveled. And just as I began to see the turning point—this new job, this new chapter—she let go.

She stayed until I could stand again. And then she left.

Tasha Bear, Tasha Bear, what do you see?
I see a Tasha Bear looking at me.

I will carry her with me into whatever comes next. Because her eyes taught me how to believe in myself again. She saw something in me that I couldn’t always see in myself. That may sound strange to say about a dog. But it’s not strange to me. That’s who she was.

Flops.
Flip Flop.
Tip Top Flip Flop.
Flip.
Flop Sweat.
Flips McDoodle.
Tosh.
Tish Tosh.
Tosh McDoodle.

Each name was a ritual. A rhythm. A way of saying I love you over and over again.

She was the sweetest of loves. She was my heart.

Mems McDoodle.
Fuzz Bucket.
Fooz Bouquet.
Fuzz McDoodle.
Bucket of Fuzz.
Woo woo!
Stinkasaurus Tash.
Stinkapotamus.
The Taybinator.
My Little Klipspringer.

Now, the silence where she used to be is deafening. I still check for her shadow. Still brace myself for the clickety-clack of her nails on the floor. I still turn, expecting to meet her eyes.

I know I’ll learn to live without her. But there will always be an empty space—waiting for her to find me again.

Until then, I carry her with me.