Hey all,
Its your old pal Punkinhead. I hope this finds you well and good.
So Bacchus the dog, friend of my heart, loyal companion, sworn tug-of-war enemy, enthusiastic eater of mangoes and tortillas and all things fowl, died this past Friday. I sat up with him much of the night but he died while he and my wife and I were asleep and I woke up to find him gone, there in our room.
So I'm past the uncontrollable sorrow, past swearing I will never own another dog, past planning on driving to the humane society to adopt a new dog as soon as I can find my shoes. I'm feeling philosophical about things.
The truth: we gave him a great life and a great home. He was happy and healthy for a long time. We did the best we could for him.
So I am at peace.
Kind of.
I feel like I am cool. Then I wake up, then stand carefully and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim morning light so I can walk into the hall without stepping on him. A second later I realize, ah, no point, Bacchus is gone. And then the wind leaves me, and I feel like calling one of the wonderful folks who said I could call whenever I wanted to talk about it and talk and cry some more and talk. I get mad at myself for the way I feel, so I don't do anything but stand in the room, let my eyes adjust all the way, then leave.
Or I go upstairs because its nine and I want to walk him before I brush my teeth and get into my book, but he's gone and I'm standing on the stairs, now going nowhere and feeling too embarrassed to say anything.
Over and over.
For example - I have a half full 40 lb bag of dog food downstairs in a cabinet. Sin to let it go to waste. I need to walk up to the dog park, say hey to some of my dog park acquaintances, and see if any of them would like 20 pounds of Iambs Senior. But I can't do it because I'm going to have to talk about it to somebody who knew him, and its going to happen all over, and I'm going to cry like a child.
Again.
So I am not cool, and I am not at peace. But I am working on it.
Mostly I want to stop talking about it because I am sick of hearing myself talk about my dead dog. A man can only ask so much of his friends and neighbors. And himself.
I wonder if his dog buddies miss him: Murphy, Bozworth, the yellow street dog we used to call Bacchus's Best Friend. Is it like that for dogs? I know that when my wife was gone for a couple of days Bacchus would mope around missing her. I think they must miss each other. They liked each other.
Bacchus loved: going for walks, being outside, playing chase and tug of war, car rides, most cats, people food*, his dog buddies, sleeping on the couch, Uncle Q, the missus and I.
Bacchus hated: taking medicine, me being gone overnight, Pookie the cat from next door, Inglewood, delivery people, baths, being cooped up inside on nice days.
Anyway there you go. I miss him, everybody who knew him liked him, everyone who liked him misses him.
be well,
ph
Taoist thought of the day: Breathe into the pain, light it up, release it. Move on.
Pet Report: Vindaloo the cat knew something was going on. She kept checking on him. She kept vocalizing all day, the meow she uses to let me know there was something she wanted me to do. Finally, when he died and I laid a sheet over him, she started running around the house yowling. Then she hid. She has been alternately extra needy or extra mean since I took him to be cremated. I an trying to be extra sweet with her. The missus thinks that our pets believe we are gods - we make lights come on, we produce food from nowhere, we control fire and can open doors. What must they think of us when we fail?
Currently Digging: Staying busy
* especially chicken and turkey, cheese, french bread, apricots, pastrami, toast . . . I could go on.
