My Dog Anchored Me; He Died

This is going to sound really stupid to some, but really relatable to others.

My dog died yesterday and I feel like I’ve come unanchored from reality. You see, back in 2012 when I had my mental breakdown I lost a few months of my life to mental illness and medication adjustment.

One of the things I used to anchor myself in reality, to lock myself in place so I knew what was real and what wasn’t, were my dogs. I have — had — two. Kip and Archie.

Now, Kip is a loner and super self-sufficient despite being the most broken dog I have ever met. I mean, literally he functions on 2 1/2 legs, has no teeth, and probably would fall over dead if it wasn’t for sheer drive and determination. He’s fifteen and acts like a teenager.

Archie on the other hand was the sweetest little cuddler in the world… He knew when you didn’t feel well and knew that you just needed a tiny blonde Chihuahua sitting in your lap. He also needed the most attention because, despite our best efforts, he never fully potty trained.

So, every morning I got out of bed, let the dogs out, and looked for the latest shit surprise from my little blonde baby. Same thing would happen in the evening and throughout the day. He was eleven and passed away due to lymphoma, leukemia, and full kidney failure that only manifested itself in a real way over the last three days.

Last night… I didn’t have to do check for poops or tuck my little man into his kennel. When I lay in bed later staring at the ceiling, I was still trying to figure out if I was in a dream. And when I woke up this morning and Kip was fine (he has an iron bladder and does not like to be woken up), I looked around the house and couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Kip just crawled up onto my chest for the first time in years. I think I’ll have to come back to the topic another time… Maybe when I don’t bawl my eyes out every time I think about it.

Until then.