Obi is the reason I wake up each morning.
The crackling of his bones as he does the downward dog. The pitter patter of his little feet against the carpet floor. The gentle thud of the force of his 30-pound body, pushing against the bed frame to tell me, “Woman, it is morning. I am hungry and I need to pee.” Even as the elephant of depression sat on my chest for months, rendering the idea of waking and sitting up from slumber the most difficult thing to get started, I’d fight to get up for him.
Nowadays, I wake up to the hum of central heating to warm up the frigid mornings. No more.
I’d flip the lid of his food bin, scoop the food into his slow feeder bowl (If I didn’t have this, the food will be gone in under a minute!) to a clatter, douse it in a little water and lay it on the mat in front of the oven range. Obi’s nails clacked against the linoleum floors as he rushed towards breakfast. I’d smile as I too savored the melody of his every slurp and crunch through the meal.
I held the bowl in my hands with crumbs of breakfasts and dinners past that hugged its sides, its designated diner now gone.
Obi would finish in less than five minutes, he’d then rush to the living room in a jig. He’d run then slide onto the carpet, snout first, as a baseball player making it to a base. Then roll around, rubbing his entire body, in a dance of joy. He never fails to celebrate before settling back into silence.
Yesterday, I stared into the distance. Our neighborhood mourning doves swooped down onto our patio floor, waddled and poked around. Never did they dare do so without the racket from Obi, who smooshed his nose and cheeks against the window pane to peer at his enemies, intruders of his space, our space.
The sun rose as we did, a build up, a setting up of the day ahead. A leisurely walk around the apartment complex or even half an hour at the dog park. I’d sit on the park bench, under the oak tree, branches and leaves that shielded my face from the harsh Texas sun and inhaled the exhaust of the street that ran alongside it, as Obi sniffed around and went about his business. Sometimes, or more often than I’d like, eating other dogs’ shit.
Sloppy kisses from him were always welcome, despite of, in spite of. We take more shit from other humans that’s more repugnant. Dog kisses are not. But now, no more. My skin longs for the wet nose boop followed by the licks of love.
Taking care of business begins after I take care of Obi’s needs. I reheat a prepped cup of chai or matcha or decaf coffee, I take time to pull a card and reflect for the day ahead. My energy and motivation builds as Obi’s descended again into a nap, dotted with exhales, sighs, whimpers from dreams and snores as loud as an exhausted grown man’s.
Obi’s my shadow, my husband’s shadow - our little shadow.
He made caves out of the undercarriage of our bed, dining table and office chairs. He’d guard the bathroom door or lay his head on the weighing scale. He’d sit by us during meals, salivating at the possibility of crumbs falling to his feet, earning the nickname “Vacuum” as he inhaled all edible things that fell from the table. He also was our organic dishwasher, doing the first pass of licking the grease before the tableware made it to the sink for a second scrub. At six o’clock, he’d wait patiently by the garage entrance to welcome his Dadads home from work. Then as we’d watch the news, a movie or binge on a series, Obi lay in the corner, by the stability ball in front of the TV as if watching us.
In the days leading up to his passing, Obi would block passageways - the bedroom and bathroom doors, the entrance to the bedroom and kitchen. Those spaces now empty, where we are free to come and go as we please without a huff and an “Obiiiiiiiii! Out of the way!” I’d take having to stumble over the cute fur loaf block any day.
I’d open the apartment door and there’s nobody there to greet me with a grin. Nobody to create a ruckus at every knock at the door. Nobody to trot towards me to behest my request for “love love,” our term for a cuddle.
Each moment without Obi cuts through my soul, leaving open wounds, susceptible to the raw pain of the new reality, this living nightmare. This is the energy of the Nine of Swords, a nightmare, a terror, a painful truth that wakes you to the core of your being.
The day Obi was brought back home, I pulled his wagon out of the garage. But instead of loading him in for our evening walk, I placed in two bags of recyclables to be wheeled to the trash. He really is gone.
If you’d like to read more about tarot cards and their meanings, here are what I’ve written about so far:
Major Arcana
Minor Arcana
Wands
Cups
Swords
Pentacles