Six years ago, this month, my 17-1/2 year old dog went home. I still miss her. I'm still in mourning.
Every year, I acknowledge the day and try to soldier on. This year, I just can't.
This year, maybe it's the excitement of being published, and I'm afraid of being happy.
Actually, I wish she were here to share it. She was there when it all started. She put up with the writing into the wee hours of the morning because I couldn't turn off the story.
Arthur, the dog in A Promise of Possibilities, was actually created with my furry baby as the model.
Maybe, this year, I finally feel like I don't have to pretend like everything is okay when it isn't. I want a peaceful, orderly room, but then I'm all too aware of her absence.
She won't care if the book is a success or a failure. She didn't care if I was fat or skinny, pretty or ugly, rich or poor, famous or anonymous. She didn't care what an emotional moron I was or how damaged I was or how scarred. She only cared that I fed her, played with her, cuddled her when she wanted it, and took her outside when she needed. When I felt the least lovable, she still thought I was. She created the game to let me know when she wasn't cross with me anymore and allowed me to use the same method to let her know when I wasn't cross anymore.
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