Courtesy of Huffington Post | By Jill Sullivan Grueter 08.12.15
I never imagined one of my saddest moments would be putting a new roll of toilet paper onto its holder. The whole act of it made my eyes well right up and my nose start to clog. As quickly as that roll was installed, I was unwinding it feverishly and blotting my eyes as I let out quiet (ok, really loud) sobs. Today, it hit me. He was never coming back.
“He” was my chocolate lab named Killian — almost 12 when he died and the very best friend I’ve ever had. Sitting there today on that cold, lonely floor, I felt sucker-punched. Nearly a month into my mourning and it’s still as raw as ever. I’d do anything to see him happily trotting down the hall while dragging that long trail of toilet paper behind him, snorting with glee the whole way. Just. One. More. Time.
For years, our toilet paper was always sitting on top of the window casing. High enough for him not to reach, low enough for him to look so incredibly endearing as he tried his best to score. This was just one of the ways he made me laugh so hard I’d snort too.
I invested a lot into my boy’s health and wouldn’t change a single thing. Diagnosed with kidney disease when he was just a year old, I knew we had a bumpy road ahead of us. When you’re told he’d only live three to five years (If you’re lucky, Ms. Grueter.), it makes you cherish each day. It became my quest to give him the longest and happiest life possible.
Dying & Death Talk 