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9:20 a.m. - 2007-06-23
She's gone.
I had have my dog put to sleep this week. Monday afternoon. I was too much of a wuss to take her myself. Or, rather, I was so upset that I couldn't function, I just shut down. So my step-dad took her instead. He took her without telling me. And I'm OK with it. We had talked about how it was past time, and she was suffering.

He and my mom were ready I guess. I don't really understand that. I don't understand how you can be ready, ever. I wasn't "ready". I knew it had to be done, and I was willing, and I wanted to have it done. But I was far from "ready". I'm never ready to let go of someone I love deeply and dearly. And of all the someones on this earth, she was number 1.

I find that beyond the grief and sorrow, there's a gaping hole of emptiness, and a loss of identity. She's been such a part of my spirit. Still is.

Mom and step-dad don't understand why I'm upset, and teary. Mom never did. I wasn't allowed to grieve my father at 9 years old, so it doesn't surprise me. So I've chosen to stay away instead of hanging around their house in the wake of my baby's death. I need to grieve, I need to sob, I need to ache and I will.

Its hitting me pretty hard that I don't believe in God now. Because I want to believe that I'll see her and my dad together one day when I pass on, and we'll all be together again. But without faith, I don't have that comfort. I wish I did have faith. I want it. But, I guess if there is a God, I have been found unworthy.

I have been wheezing a lot this week, and thought maybe it was some kind of allergy or something. But my massage therapist friend told me that adult on-set athsma is often the product of deep grief. That we tighten up our chests and breath differently when we grieve. She did some light, heart opening stretches on me and I do feel better.

I feel better today anyway. Lighter. I'm going to Six-land to do some serious boozing tonight. An Irish wake of sorts. Only I'll have gallons of vodka instead of whisky. I should be right as rain on Sunday. Or at least hurting so badly I can't think about my poor heart.

You know, I adopted my dog when I was 24. And I thought for sure back then that I'd have a husband and a family to support me through this time. I literally thought that back then. It sure would have helped not to be alone. I hate having to bury my emotions until I'm alone. It sure would have been nice to have had someone's shoulder to cry on, and maybe help me be strong so I didn't have to carry the burdeon all on my own. But, I'll stop whining. What's where a committment phobe get herself, isn't it?

I really should work on that.

And on that note, here's a poem that I've always found somehow soothing, even if it is about a man rather than a girl-dog. Its just beautiful:

Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden


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