Heartbreak had paws and whiskers
Your heart breaks small.
This isn't the shatter, the explosion, your father's death was; something that ripped through you violently and then rained devastation down on you for months. It (so far) hasn't left you in a daze, stumbling blindly through the minutes and the hours, unable to take a full breath. You don't seem to be traversing the kind of nightmare landscape that will be stricken from your memory when you look back. It's not like when he passed. Your father... You didn't even journal then. Or, if you did, those entries are just as lost as you were. Never had you been so fractured that the wound had to heal before words could start flowing again - you didn't know that was even possible for you. Looking back, it was the better part of a year before you could bring yourself to pick up your pen (keyboard) again. You steeped your pain and loss into a bitter tea for a long time before finally beginning the meticulous, exhausting process of pouring yourself back out; draining yourself so you could be washed clean and start fresh... And this? You know this isn't that.
But broken is broken.
This time, you break like glass heated by the torch only to be plunged into ice water; hairline cracks splintered all the way through you until you resemble the marbles you collected as a child. You're still the same shape, you're still made of the same stuff. In the darkness of a closed fist, it's easy to tell that, fundamentally, your components are unaltered. But when the sun rises, the evidence of your breaking shines brightly in the light. Your heart in pieces, cupped in your hands where her little face used to rest when you'd kiss her nose and press your forehead to hers (as if it would transmit the understanding of your love to her the way metal conducts heat). And life goes on, and your marble can still roll. But, oh, your broken, broken heart.
The worst part so far is the emptiness. Nature abhors a vacuum and so do you. You gave so much of yourself to this grey and white creature, now you don't know what to do. Especially at night, when you used to feed her and give her medicine and love her, love her, love her. She'd sleep stretched out in your arms between you and your side of the bed, so you'd contort yourself every time you needed to get up instead of disturbing her, making your husband shake his head at you in amused bemusement (or maybe bemused amusement, it can be so hard to tell). A little angel who would clamber into your arms any chance she could, your most steadfast and dedicated nap conspirator, your bumbling familiar that would fall into step behind you anywhere you went. Your muse when composing the silliest of songs that you sang softly to her morning, noon, and night. Your little beast with wide eyes. Oh ye, oh ye.
It's not like it was a surprise, but you were still surprised by it, which seems so silly now; childish and naive. It was her time. She was sick. She was old. Her heart was failing. We didn't want her to suffer. Of course, of course, you should have known. But it all falls flat.
What you do know is that you would have continued to fight viciously to keep her with you, so long as she was happy. But when the doctor came in and said she was in pain? Softly and gently told us that the right thing was to let her go? Now? In the little room that was designed for people to watch their pets die? Here? Now? Now?
But the doctor said, "Do not pass Go, do not collect $200."
(Not literally, of course)
But it was time.
You just weren't ready.
Not to see her wrapped in that towel, sitting up and searching for you when they brought her into the room, a purple IV port in one arm and a green one in the other. Not for the way you hunched over her involuntarily when they set her in your arms and sobbed so loudly it was almost a scream; a sound that hurt your throat to make. Not for the words that bubbled up out of you with the salt water and snot, apologizing to her that it had to be like this, assuring her you were there, right there, there with her as she put out a delicate paw to rest lightly at the base of your throat - such a simple, familiar gesture between the two of you.
Keening.
That's the word for what you were doing. You were keening.
You were not ready for the promises you made her. Over and over in a helpless feedback loop, "I love you, it'll be okay, I promise, you'll feel so much better soon, we're here, C---'s here, I'm here, I'm here, I love you and I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here." Not ready to start reassuring her that you would be okay without her, that she didn't need to worry about you. As though she could understand and be comforted by what you were saying.
Not ready for the vet to give her the first injection, the one that put her to sleep but didn't Put Her To Sleep, and say comfortingly, "Now she won't feel any pain for the rest of her life." as though the blue, actually-put-her-to-sleep juice wasn't already plugged in and queued up.
As though the rest of her life would be longer than the next five minutes.
That last kiss on her nose, that last forehead press; christening her face with a torrent of tears.
"She lived a long and full life," they said, "You guys seem like you were amazing owners. She was so lucky to have you. You clearly loved her so much. You made the right choice." but all you can hear is lived, were, was, loved.
Past-tense, past-tense, past-tense, past-tense.
And now the dread to never again refer to her as present-tense in your weird, rambling, overly prose-y, stream-of-consciousness, second-person journals.. Always was and never is. It's almost unbearable.
You know the grief will lessen over time. The emptiness will refill with something almost the same shape and the pain will slowly fade. The outline of her will be branded into you for life, but even that will eventually shift from a burn into a scar. It won't always be the raw, glistening redness of a fresh wound. Unlike marbles, you can heal. You won't be broken, splintered glass forever.
But you will be for a bit longer.
You're not ready for anything else just yet.