MandyLoo Merkley

(March 3rd, 2007 – January 2nd, 2022)

Some people can’t function without their morning coffee or shower. Awakening each morning with MandyLoo was a cherished hour-long ritual. She would clamber onto the bed, her eyes gleaming with anticipation for the affectionate massage that awaited her. As I rubbed her tummy, I reveled in the softness of her silky fur, and she would shower me with kisses. Gazing into her deep, soulful eyes, I felt a connection that transcended words. These precious moments with her were the highlight of my day, the perfect commencement to every morning. When she nestled beside me, I could feel the rhythmic cadence of her breathing against my own. The gentle rise and fall was a comforting reminder of her presence, a soothing lullaby that brought peace to my heart and joy to my life every single day.

Despite months of anticipatory grief, January 2, 2022 hit me with indescribable pain. I realized I would never be the same. Even as I attempt to write about this, I find myself breaking down. Perhaps we’re not meant to be “the same.” Mandy made me softer, kinder, more playful, more calm, more loving, more forgiving. Everything seems less without her. But, to honor her memory, I am more mindful of the things I say and do. 

I still swing my feet over the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her slumbering form that isn’t there. I expect her little nose to nudge the bathroom door open, a routine so ingrained in me. I reach down to stroke her soft fur during my bath, only to find empty air.

The sound of her tiny paws, the tapping of her nails on the tile, is a melody I yearn for. I sobbed when I had to wash the towel used during her euthanasia, the same one that had wrapped her in countless baths and cuddles over the years. Each object, once mundane, now holds a sacred significance. Her bowl. Her bff, QuackQuack. Her winter coat and autumn sweater that still hang by the garage door where we kept her leash. 

I can’t bring myself to vacuum the spot where she would lie on the floor, listening to me play the piano. The faint outline of her body is still there, a ghostly imprint. She had her favorite spots over the years, each one a testament to her presence in our lives. But it’s the piano room that feels the emptiest without her, and the reason I couldn’t play for a year and half after her passing. I tried to pour my sorrows out on the keys, but the overwhelming sense of her absence stopped me. I miss her being my captive audience, always appreciative, no matter how many times I replayed a tune or made mistakes.

I still struggle with grief. It’s not something to “master.” I deal with it as it ebbs and tides, and I await those dreamy visits with her. She was my perfect companion, and I’ll love her forever. 

- Amy B. Merkley