Friday, September 07, 2007


I don't know how to grieve for a dog and I don't know how not to. I mean, I just keep feeling sorry for myself but have to pretend that everything is alright out in the world and what I really want to do when the girl at the coffee shop asks me if I am having a good day is say that NO I AM NOT HAVING A GOOD DAY I JUST HAD TO PICK UP MY DOGS ASHES FROM THE VET and then, because I really did, what I did was start crying and tipped her 1.75 for my iced coffee and apologized and waited awkwardly for my coffee thinking I just ruined someone else's day which makes my day a double negative. JUST SHUT UP ABOUT IT.


Really I just want to spread it around so I don't have to feel it secretly all to myself all the time. That is why I tell. I also don't want to get rid of things that bridge the gap into the past because I know no matter what I do time will race on so he will be nothing but a distant memory, just a dog. Yet still, in the cupholder in my car is the cup for ice coffee with even the coffee still that I bought the day he died. And the mcdonalds bag that held his lunch that day, and in the fridge the can of pumpkin I fed him daily. I like the idea that these things are so fresh still that he was just touchable when this very cup was still here. But already it is getting too long for the cup, and the pumpkin will spoil soon and he is already ashes and already we are wanting a new puppy. Time is interminable, while grief only feels that way.

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