They keep telling me that I should just let her go, let that night rest and move on with my life.
They don't realise that I still wake up in the middle of the night, sobbing for Chance and sobbing for myself and sobbing for the fucked-up world with...
After spending a couple of hours bumming around the skate park, I head home and take the Count, my dog, out for a walk. Having to walk him every night used to be a chore, but now it's one of the most constant things in my life. And there's something beautiful about little consistency.
The Count is a blue-grey merle collie dog, with tons of energy and therefore needs tons of exercise. And, like countless other dogs, adores me — his owner. Technically, he's my older sister Lauren's dog. But since she doesn't live at home anymore, I've taken responsibility for him.
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When we found him at a rescue centre, the first thing he did was drool all over us — me, Lauren, Mum and Dad. From there, we knew he'd end up being the one we took in. My dad joked this dog could be the king of drooling so much. Henceforth, Count Droolsalot was named, declared a count and initiated into the Brewer family.
"C'mon, boy." I smile, clipping his lead onto his collar. His tail wags and his tongue lolls out of his mouth as I say one of his absolute favourite words, "Walkies!"
Grabbing a bag of dog treats, I lead him out of the house — unable to bite back the smile that's forming over how happy the Count is.
"Woods or beach, bud?" I ask him.
"Woof!"
"Woods it is then." Who am I kidding? There's no distinction between a woof for woods and a woof for the beach — he loves them both, so the tough decisions are left to me.
We walk along the streets, the Count pacing beside me, his paws bouncing off the pavement.
My heart stops as I realise I didn't pick up any poo bags as I left the house. I regain my breath as I pull out a single one of the black bags from my pocket.
"You better not do more than one shit, pal," I warn.
He lifts his muzzle up to me and pulls a face like, 'I'll do as many shits as I wanna'.
I sigh, tipping my head up to the sky — trusting my feet entirely — and stare up at the bleak grey sky.
Suddenly, the Count stops walking, and I'm snapped out of my trance. I try pulling him to keep walking, tugging at his lead, but he doesn't move.
As a border collie, he's got a strong build as a dog. But it's not like I'm weak or anything, so I keep pulling at his lead.
"What's wrong, boy?" I frown at him, stroking his head as he looks expectantly at the front door of a house.
Not just any house.
Chance's house.
Crestfallen, I remind him, "She's not there..."
Maybe I'm also reminding myself; either way, he and I are both delusional for thinking she's still waiting in her bedroom for us to walk past. She always came on walks with us, even though she always had stacks of homework to do.
