Last June 5, 2013 at 11:28pm, my bestfriend, running buddy, and bedmate Prince died.
He got confined the day before because he hasn’t been eating or drinking for 3 days. He could barely walk. I said screw it and took him to the vet. We went back there a week before because he wasn’t eating that much. He was totally fine until he starved himself completely.
When the doctor said he needed to be confined, I was heartbroken. I cried seeing him on that kennel. He looked so weak, his eyes more wet than usual. He must be crying like me too.
I won’t go into gory details which include something that’s not supposed to come out of somewhere but it did.
By 11:20, as I was so close to falling asleep, I heard my phone ring. It was the vet. Visiting hours were from 8-8. I knew something was wrong. They said he collapsed and that we needed to get there right away. My heart literally skipped a beat because I just wanted to go to him, take him home, let him live his remaining days in his house with his little squeaky balls and plush dogs and Scramble, his teddy bear that he hugs at night. While on the cab, they called again. I didn’t think it was bad news, maybe they’ll say he’s stable and that according to policy I’m not supposed to visit ib an ungodly hour. Boy was I wrong.
I didn’t make it to him in time.
I cried while I was on the cab. I hated myself. I hated that I didn’t make it. That I wasn’t taking care of him enough. That I had to doubt going to him home from school because I didn’t have much time left because of that stupid policy. I could have been there. During his last fews hours.
I hated him. I hated that he didn’t wait for me. I told his limp, lifeless body as I stroked his fur, his foot with the IV, his head, his ears, his belly just how he liked it.
The fan was a bitch, made his fur move. I was hoping he was still alive. Like in a coma that jist needed a little more push.
I went by the side of the surgery table, looked in his face. His eyes weren’t closed, it was facing the window. Waiting for me. But I didn’t make it in time. That hurt me the most. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t fucking there.
For a 20 year old woman, this must all sound very stupid. I might be having my PMS. I might be just being a naive child crying over it until now and the days to come. He wasn’t just my baby, or my master, he was my best friend. He really was. And now that he’s gone I barely talk at home, use a somber voice, excessively pet Clark, wishing he was smaller or had more fur like Prince did. He was the one I cared so much about, feeding him before myself in the morning. I felt so proud just knowing I took care of him by myself. 13 months wasn’t enough.
This was the last photo I ever took of him, 4 days before he died.
God I just miss him. I just want to see him turn his head dramatically when I call him, make his cute pose in which he’d lay down with his belly exposed, get pissed at a squeaky ball and howl in offense to it, jump on me when I say we’ll go upstairs and hang laundry, lay down on my spot in the bed before I do, bite my hair, lick my face or neck, jump so high but can’t climb our stairs, bark like the boss that he was, and my all-time favorite, wait for me by the door even when I’m still at the gate.
I love you Prince. I’ll miss you. Don’t pee all over heaven.