Dear Jayne,

I will never forget what you did for me.

I remember when I first saw that picture in the classified. Four brothers, sitting on a recliner. One, a sore thumb sticking out. You refused to look at the person taking the picture. The distance you felt for propped photography was evident. To the point where you weren’t even in half the pictures. You’d had obviously wandered off to do something more worthy of your time. You didn’t look like the others. A ball of fluff.

I can still transport myself back to that parking lot in Langley. The sun was blaring. For some reason — unbeknownst to me — I had decided to wear a black shirt. It was hot. I could only imagine how warm you would have been.

The sliding door on the van slide open. Time was moving ultra slowly to savor the moment. I leaned in. Saw a large Tupperware bin. Inside was a bucket load of love and responsibilities. There you were. Sitting there looking around like this was a normal thing for you to be in.

I picked you up.

Your entire torso fit in the palm of my hand. Your tiny limbs leaked off the sides like icicles on the gutters of a suburb home. You didn’t squirm. Liking being held. Human contact. You were at ease, other than the heat. I grasped you with both hands and hoisted you up near my face. We stared at each other for a while. Then you liked my nose.

I fell in love with you in that moment. And I believe you returned the favor right away.

It was the beginning of something I would never understand. Even to this day

You were there for me. When I felt at my lowest. When I couldn’t feel more alone.

I was trying to do as much as I could to turn my life around. You and I would partake in hours of walking, as I reacquainted myself with the outside world via podcasts. You didn’t seem to mind that half my mind was present, and the other was off dancing with another train of thought.

You stayed vigilant.

Your love and attention was relentless. I couldn’t even get the door closed behind me before you were at my side. Awaiting a regailment of the day you missed out on. No matter how many times I had to leave you behind, and attend physical rehabilitation, you’d be hanging on baited (be it stinky) breath.

None of the horror stories I’d be told came true. You were the best companion. The easiest creature to love. I was so fortunate.

No matter my struggles. No matter the breakups, the long nights of tireless writing, the insomnia, the war of university education and compact schedule, I always had a little partner to come down with, a friend to warm my feet during the hours of continual keyboard pecking. I’m not sure I would have had much the same chance to come out cleanly had it not been for the adoration that oozed out of every one of your choices.

There wasn’t a thing I would change about you. Even in the final days. I thought so long. So furiously. So intimately. Before coming to the decision that my life, my world, was about to get a hell of a lot more sporadic and unkempt than it already was. This, is why I cam to the conclusion that I wasn’t about to drag you along on this ride in which I had no sight of a finish line.

In the final weeks… I avoided you. I placed an ad that tore my heart out, in an attempt to profess in clear detail the agony of my choice. But this was for you. Not for me.

People will call me selfish. Some might even have the gull to say it to my face. However it was the least selfish thing I could fathom. Had I chosen to benefit me, I would have kept you around. I needed need you. But you needed more care. More love. More stability. More yard. More pets. More time on the chesterfield with your feet in the air and snores upon your nostrils. The white puft of fur on your chest sticking straight up a few inches off your frame. And you’ve earned it.

I don’t know if the moments of life I have ahead will be darker than the ones behind me, but I owed it to you — for helping me through those — to ensure you had the best opportunity to be blissful and happy.

Through the full skeletal throbbing sobs of a young man, I fearfully searched for that luxury for you.

I will never be able to tell you, in a way you’d understand, how much I love you. But I have a feeling you know it.

No matter how hard I cried. In the early days, or the last. You always embraced the stranglehold I had on your body, as I buried my face into your neck and wished you could mutter some reassurance in life.

You were a therapist. You were an answer to a lot of questions I had. And you’d come to be the solution to a major prong of self-doubt I couldn’t shake.

I could love something, wholeheartedly, without a clear indication of the return.

In those final moments, you leaped onto a stranger’s couch, hopping on my lap, and I swear you hugged me. Was it a goodbye? It felt like you knew you were in a better place. And that somehow, I would only need you more in the coming months. Again, I didn’t have to work for your uncolored love/affection.

You would have followed me into the fiery end of the world. And you would have done it without question, without concern.

With that, I hope you can forgive me for the few days of uncomfortable confusion you are now experiencing. In the care of another. I hope you can get lost in the good life. The life I wasn’t set up to give you. As I’m hoping when I come to visit to won’t hold it against me.

I don’t know what spurred on my desire to write this to you — no one.

All I can feel right now is this ugly weight that pushes down on my ribcage. It pulls me down like a hailstorm. Darkens the sky like a flock of aimless crows. But i lay here knowing that ultimate happiness and solidarity in your homestead is achievable, and in your near future. Which is an odd tug-of-war.

Only part of me can feel sad — real helpless, wandering sadness. While the other is smiling. Knowing you’re frantically running around a large yard, ever chasing the squirrels that encroach your new territory, under the watchful eye of a lady who’s first tier in her action will be you and your ultimate happiness.

Originally published at wfossett.com in 2015

WYATT FOSSETT is a Writer from the North West. Known for high-octane cocktails of real life expression, fanciful works of fiction, and a history in Journalism.