Lengthy lapse

It’s been awhile since I have written and I must apologize for that.
Not only to you, gentle reader, but also to myself. When writers stop writing, something is wrong in their world. It is like the marathon runner not running every day or the quilter who lays aside her needle.
None of these actions are life-threatening. But they are signs that something is not right. Maybe the marathoner has a lame foot or the quilter’s finger is sore.
For me, it’s a mishmash of reasons. The last piece I wrote was about my good dog, Tip.
And, frankly, I am still not over his death.
The days are just as they were before. Sun and moon. Breakfast and dinner. But there are three dogs in my house instead of four. Three bowls for food. Three treats to distribute.
I don’t mean to be maudlin. It’s not like Tiny Tim’s crutch in the corner for me. Some sentimental kind of grief. It hurts. And some days it hurts so much I just don’t want to do anything. Not even write.
And he was just a damn dog.
I feel that is what people would say if I talk about my grief. If I talk about the emptiness. The sadness. I am sure there would be some measure of sympathy, but after a month I think most expect me to be over it.
This is not an area where the Ump does well. I’ve tried talking about it with him… He listens, but he doesn’t know what to say. My emotions are big. Texas big. And his are more like Delaware or Rhode Island.
So I have been trying to think of a way to dive back into writing. I fancy that some folks might miss my weekly missive. Ann, anyway.
And then, this week, I got an email from Rick. It was a short, short email. “I had to put Dasher to sleep yesterday.”
Rick is one of those guys who is all in. When he is your friend, he is your friend good, bad or ugly. His dog, Dasher, was diagnosed with all kinds of problems, including diabetes, and Rick was there every step of the way. He injected that dog with insulin. He picked her up when her backend wasn’t moving. He worried about her.
I haven’t been able to reach him to tell him how sorry I am he was put in the position to have to make this decision – to feel like you are playing God with the life of a good dog. I hate that I know what that feels like, but I do.
His one line email loosened something inside me. I think I forgot that writing is the way in and the way out. It is my marvelous tool for digging into my mind and it is also the machete that chops away the strangling emotions.
So, I am not exactly back. But I will be.
Don’t let go of me too easily.
I need you too.