After leaving the veterinarian’s office, the reality of what had just happened began to sink in. At that point, the only thing I could think of that might bring even a little comfort was a big glass of whiskey. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I just needed something to make the pain go away fast, even if only for a little while.

We carried the weight of it with us on the drive home. Everything felt fast and slow at the same time. Like time had stopped for us.

As we started getting closer to the house, my heart began to race and my mind started to panic. 

Austin had always greeted us. 

Every time we pulled into the driveway, he was home. Sometimes waiting at the door, sometimes peeking over from the couch or from the second floor, or lying on the landing between the stairs. Every door, every bit of floor space, every little corner of the house held a trace or memory of him. 

And this time… he’s not home. 

When we finally walked inside, the next part was the hardest. 

The silence was deafening. 

There was no barking, no panting, no nails tapping on the floor. And no “Austin, we’re home” as we walked through the door. 

My heart was breaking open and so my wife and I started working on that bottle of whiskey while my mom rested in her room. 

We walked around the kitchen, dining, and living room trying to deal with our emotions. Every now and then, one of us would start crying again. We would hold each other and then walk off. We repeated that cycle for I don’t even know how long. 

The whiskey didn’t shut any of it off. The silence, the tears, the pain. If anything, it made everything heavier, like every sip pulled me deeper into the reality I was trying to escape.

After a while, I felt the need to rush. I couldn’t stand seeing all of Austin’s things sitting there, knowing he would never use them again.

Needing something to do, we began cleaning up.

We made three piles. One for keepsakes for the things that held our memories. Another for donation, items that were still clean and in good condition. And last for the things we had to let go of.

We started with his bedding area in the living room. Everything was just as he left it. His pads, pillows, blankets, and his blue whale stuffed animal that he had been sleeping with. I gave that to him the day he could no longer sleep next to us. Even though we slept on the sofa and air mattress next to him, I still didn’t want him to feel alone. 

His bed was one of the things we couldn’t bring ourselves to part with. It was a sacred, intimate space where we sat with him through pain, helped him heal, and shared so many playful moments.

It only felt right to move it to the front of the living room, where we would always see it.

The living room had always been Austin’s throne. He was the King of the castle. To honor him, we created a small memorial space right on top of our blue ottoman, right there in the middle of the room. 

When his ashes are ready for pickup, that’s where he will rest. 

In the center of it all, right where he belongs, to watch over the home he made his own.