Time

Time heals, they say.

Time certainly passes, and there is nothing anyone can do about that.  Each day takes me further away from when I had Toby.  Every morning, I feel guilty if he isn't my first thought when I wake up.

Time spent crying, of course that is an essential part of grieving, sometimes set off by the most trivial thing.  All the big things, I did them straight away, Toby's lead was put away with his collar as soon as we got back from the vet, his bowl put away the same evening, his coat taken off the radiator. 

But it is the little things.  Little routines that are suddenly missing.  Habits you didn't realise you had - none of the dogs need waking up when I get home now.  None of them need five minutes head start to get through their dinner.  None of the dogs need me to slow down in the field when they stop to sniff so they don't lose me, and none of them are too deaf to know when I want them to turn around, move over, or get their furry little backsides over here sharpish, or else.  None of them woof with the right tone, and none of them smell right when I bury my nose in their fur. 

But I am lucky I still have other dogs, I can only imagine how much worse it would be to go through this without them, they really do lick the tears away, Basil's tongue at warp licking speed, and then Alf nips my nose to make me smile.

Time spent thinking, talking, telling people about Toby, and the fact he has gone.  When I'm not at home I feel like he is still there, he must be, he always is, and he will be waiting for me when I get back.  Walking through the front door is like swallowing a concrete block, my stomach leaden, a hollow awareness that someone is missing.  For the first few days it took a real effort to put the key in the lock and go indoors to no Toby, and a couple of times I caught myself standing outside the door staring at it, as though it would bite me if I went too close.

Time spent looking at photos, some bring more tears, but many many more bring smiles.  I have been cold these last few days, shivering for no reason, but this is warming me from the inside with all the memories, thinking of all the good times.  Oh we had a lot of good times.  Time spent walking together, sunny, rainy, windy walks and his favourite, snowy walks.  I find some photos I had forgotten about, taken at the top of Glastonbury Tor, my three muskateers and me, very windswept.  And the next set shows the three of them flopped all over my parents' garden sunbathing, and me reading a book.  We spent a lot of time doing not much together.

And looking at photos makes me realise how time has passed.  How my gorgeous boy changed with the years, his eyes, his face, his coat.  Changes you don't notice day to day, it happens too gradually, and seeing young Toby again is a reminder of how much he had aged.  His character was always there - even in the very first Toby photo I sent home to my parents I can see that look, intense, staring at me, or more likely staring at a biscuit just out of camera shot.

In time his ashes will come back, and I will put them together with Prin's and Bob's.  Time will cover the boxes with dust, and from time to time I will brush it off.  But wherever I will go they will come with me, and I will always be glad I knew them.  My original pack of three, Toby my first, then Bob, and Prin my inheritance, they have shaped me, loved me, made me a good dog owner I hope, and taught me more about dogs than I ever knew there was to know.

Time gives perspective.  And I wouldn't change a thing.