It doesn't fit

It doesn't fit.

It's a pair of pants that digs in when I try to sit down, but I can't take them off.

I vacuum, and the canister barely collects any dust.

When I roll out of bed, I automatically watch my feet to make sure I don't step on any paws.

When I walk into a room, my ears strain to hear the thump-thump-thump of a tail wagging against the carpet.

When I cut the crust off of Topher's sandwich, I gather up the pieces in my hand and inhale, readying myself to call out her name.

But she isn't there and it doesn't fit.

I never realized the enormous silence she was always fighting off.  I never realized how sterile our home would feel without her.  I never really knew that she could leave.

It's silly, isn't it?  This is the inevitable ending of the story when you have a pet.  There is no magic spell to grant them youth eternal.  But I forgot to read ahead in the book.  I didn't want to.  And so I nearly forgot about the ending.  It surprised me, even though everyone knows the story by heart.  

And now that we are at the end of the book, it doesn't fit.  I've missed a step, and I keep stumbling.

I hope she is happy.  I hope that my Nana is feeding her table scraps and that my uncle is running with her on a beach somewhere.  I hope she knows that our family is not the same, that it will never feel quite right without her.

It doesn't fit, but we need to adjust to the new feeling, uncomfortable though it may be.  Or at least resign ourselves to it.

We love her, but she is not here to love, and it will never fit.

I miss my Sassy-pants.

 She was a perfect fit.

--KC