they say writing is therapy

Hello everyone,
I'm writing this post on reflection of what happens to be the worst week of my life. If you know me personally then you'll probably have guessed what this is about, but for those of you who don't know why, you're about to find out.
Eleven years and six months ago, on a sunny June morning, I had in my lap a tiny puppy sitting in a bowl, on his way to his new home for the first time. His ears were too big for his body and he was restless as each green light disturbed his attempt to sleep. This morning, on a rainy December day, that same puppy, who grew into his ears and could sleep through
a hurricane returned home for the final time, in a teeny box with his name written on it.
Chalkie, Chalk, Chalkina, Little Man, Buddy, Chop, Baby rice, whichever name he went by departed on December 7th, cementing my eternal hatred for Mondays. I can't type this and lie that I didn't see it coming; time was against him, he'd been showing signs of sickness for a few weeks, but that doesn't make it any less heart destroying.
In eleven and a half years he showed that he was the bravest little pup to live. He'd been blind for most of his life, had issues with his gums which resulted in a little crooked smile and had a tumour removed. In his final days we were told he had arthritis, dementia and lung and kidney diseases. Chalkie never did things on a small scale.
I'm writing this because since Monday everything has felt strange. I saw my dad cry for the very first time. Christmas feels like a chore and not a celebration. It sounds stupid but I haven't looked at a box of coco pops the same since, knowing how much he loved being rewarded with the final, chocolately milk that was leftover. I haven't been poked on the leg when making food, heard any whining to be put on a chair to sleep or heard the little jingle of his collar before walkies.
A lot of people think so what, you can get another dog, it's not as though I lost a close relative or a limb, and if you're one of those people then please stop reading now and message me so I can delete you from my life forever.
Here's why eleven and a half years cannot be deemed a so what issue:
I was nine when he came into our lives. He's seen me through the end of primary school, the start of secondary school, family bereavements, exams, assignments, stress, jobs, university. Been a friend when I had none. He couldn't reply but he didn't need too, he had all my secrets and they were safe. He may not have been blood but that's how we treated him. My parents told us that it was another  sibling or a dog, and that's how we treated him. We made sure he had food, someone to play with, somewhere to sleep, cleaned his waste and always made sure he was okay.
Without him, everything is silent. There's no how's Chalkie been today? Has Chalkie slept today? When's Chalkie going out?
He was the world in our household.

I'm mostly writing this because I want there to be a place I can remember, because I never want to forget. I never want to forget the sound of his sneeze, or the way he'd scratch his chin against the carpet. How he'd kick he feet after ever pee, how he'd nudge the tissue box and slam the washing machine door when he was in a mood or how even though he couldn't see, he knew where his treat cupboard was. I don't want to forget he'd push everyone out of the way of the fireplace or rest between the blinds on sunny days because he hated to be cold. I want to remember his first day at home, how he needed a brick to help him step back into the house, how he'd always take his food out of his bowl to eat, leaving a mess everywhere and the remains of carrots and peas. I want to remember how he always used to prick his ears up at the theme tune for Miffy the Bunny and how his favourite toy was his little Christmas monkey who now lives in my room.
I also want to thank the people that have sent me messages of love, you know who you are and it has helped me.
I'm sorry if this post hasn't been the most uplifting but I needed to write it, to get it out of my system for now at least.
I hope one day I can love something as much as strong as his love for Baker's biscuits, cheese, chicken and digestives was, but I think I know that that love is reserved for him.
Thank you for reading,
Aimee :( x