It’s been a month.
A fucking long month. Grey days blended together. Feather touch landing and toxins.
Two chemical fire storms. Rage and fleas.
Fleas strap on helmets of salt and jump into gaping wounds.
I’ve been waiting-holding-bracing for that conversation…the awkward one where I have to say… "Oh, sorry, thanks for asking, but she is dead."
I have nothing in response to people’s sympathy. That will be fleeting now anyway. You just get on with things right? It’s not like it’s a person. It’s not like it was a soul you were connected to for 15 years or anything of import.
It’s not like the space she leaves behind is a yawning gulf, where you wonder why you never noticed how quiet and lonely a house can be.
Have you thought about getting another dog?
NO. Because I am not an easily appeased toddler. I am a real life alleged adult. The idea that this furiously loving little soul who cared for me for 15 years, who saved my life, who held my grief, who travelled by my side for many 1000’s of kilometres… is somehow an easily interchangeable set piece, a model I can upgrade?
I can’t bear it.