Haunted by Dreams

I dreamt of Beau last night.

I dreamt that I was carrying him around a new house; it was my house and it was some sort of open house, though I don’t own a house; my mum was there trying to sell the place for me, though my mum doesn’t do that kind of work - ah yes - a description that possesses all the clarity of a remembered dream.

What I remember most is how it felt to hold Beau. He was small enough to tuck under an arm, his four white paws in my right hand, my arm pressing his side against mine, his head resting somewhere close to my chest. I think he loved to be carried; he loved to be closer to licking level with people’s faces. He was always a licker. He was an awesome dog.

I hate dreaming about Beau, well, more honestly, I hate waking up from having dreamt about Beau. Often times my dreams of him are so vivid, so real, I can feel his fur against my face, feel the touch of his cold nose, remember how much I love him and how much comfort he brought to me during is furry life.

And then I wake up.

And I am alone.

And I miss him even more.

The worst dream I ever had of him (or maybe it was the best), was one I had soon after his passing; I dreamt that he was sleeping next to me in bed, his furry little body pressed up against my left leg, I could hear his breathing and feel his warmth. Waking up, for a moment I thought he was still there; and then I remembered, and his absence was all the more palpable.

For the longest time after his death I couldn’t sleep in my bed, I kept thinking I heard him, his snuffling snoring sigh as he settled down to sleep under my bed, where he often slept, close to my head, close to my heart.

Or maybe, in retrospect, it was the absence of the sound that made it so hard to sleep – in the still of the night, after the chaos of the day has calmed, all we are left with, are all the things that haunt us.

He haunts me still, now over six months since his passing.

I took comfort from his presence; now, I must learn to find comfort in his absence.