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***A less than one-year Bernie, in what is likely the earliest photo I have of her. Lake Tahoe, 1994***

"And this is my brain

Its torturous and analytical thoughts

Make me go insane"

Kate Nash, "Mouthwash"

I think we all worry when someone close to us passes that we may not be mourning enough, whether that comes in the form of guilt for simply continuing on with your life--which you must do--or via some other creepy idea that crawls into your mind. When Bernie died, clearly, I was sad, there was no question about that. To a much, much lesser degree, there was a since of relief--not as in, phew, don't have to deal with her anymore but as in, there was a tangible removal of a lot of responsibility and commitment from my shoulders. As far as veteran dogs go, she was easy, with no real physical limitations to place near-unreasonable duties upon me, which can often be the case with senior dogs. I had to do a mental dance, however, in the sense that I had a dog whose life was winding down and to whom I was deeply committed, and her to me. It can be very, very difficult to walk out the door to go goof off for a few hours while your best buddy who won't be around a year, maybe two from now stays behind, hoping that every sound is you coming home. I danced this step for the last couple years. It wasn't a feeling of guilt when I'd leave, it was a feeling of, man, this is time I don't get to spend with my favorite creature of Earth, time that will be but a memory in the near future. It was about a year ago now that I noticed changes in Bernie, changes that led to her diagnosis nine months ago. In a way, that compounded my agony of having to leave her behind, in another way it clairified when perhaps the end might come. Before her diagnosis, I had somewhat a freak of nature larger dog, in that even though 14, you could easily see another couple "productive" years from her. Her diagnosis allowed me to comfortably put other things in my life on hold, knowing that in the not so distant future, there would be a lot of time for everything else.

So she was gone, and Chad was sad. A morsel of my being was glad, glad that she had lived a 15-year life that only the luckiest of dogs get to live, one that was full of pleasure and very, very little pain. A hard fact, though, is that while a ton of Chad's life had trotted away to Puppy Heaven, a massive amount of time and possibilities beckoned. So you dive in as best you can, joining you for the ride feelings that you are embracing your life-after with too much vigor. The tsunami of reality that a big albeit pleasant responsibility has vanished injects a different type of spirit within, and you feel this, and you exhale fully. Then you feel it. Guilt. So you slow down, let yourself consciously and subconsciously process everything, trusting yourself, your mind and soul. Know that you mourn, you miss.

I'm one week away from four months since Bernie died. My life after is unfolding, and it's good. My fears of not mourning enough or losing memories or not being able to illicit the feelings that Bernie made percolate inside me unfounded. I think about her often, almost constantly when I'm home. I lay down to sleep, and I think of her as I say goodnight. To one part of my brain's dismay another part of it always, every night, drifts to her last day, the sad things, and I shoo those thoughts away, self-repression. I wish you were here, I tell her, then I channel my thoughts to other things. Then, most nights, I dream of her. Nice dreams, just her and I together.

I'm happy that I still mourn, still miss her, still want to pet her, feed her, smell her, hear her, laugh with her. Even though it isn't all perfectly pleasant, I like where I am right now. I'm happy that Bernie is still a big part of my life.