I'm struggling this week. Productivity is plummeting while demands are jockeying for attention. And that's okay. Really. Ebb and flow, give and take. And I freely admit to being a bit frazzled, a lot spacey and overwhelmingly exhausted. So basically your garden variety pre-holiday stress, hold the gravy. This is the last week of NaNoWriMo, and it's not even a blip on my radar. 

So as I drift along the word count abyss, I've been feeling the need to come up with a new blog post. To keep me writing. To give me something different to write about. To keep up with my blog. To keep me from chugging a bottle of tequila while I prep for Thanksgiving. I've had several ideas come to mind with fantastically witty observations or funny anecdotes. Of course, none of these stuck around long enough for me to write them down. At a loss and losing my grip on conscious thought, I latched onto something that came up (again) in conversation tonight.

I am, based on extensive experience, apparently a difficult person to read. 

And, people who try to read anything into my actions are generally (ahem) wrong. I find this fascinating, because I like to think of myself as fairly straight forward and pretty good at reading other people. But people apply their own 'baggage' to their communications and interactions. So if I say, "Okay, let's do that." I don't mean "I'd rather set my face on fire." I am capable of politely bowing out of something I'd rather not do instead of following along like a lemming. 

Point of fact, if I do turn something down it doesn't mean I never want to see that person again. (Because then I'd make mention of that pesky face on fire appointment on my schedule.) It does mean I'm either legitimately busy, I have so little interest in the activity that it's actually sucking the life from me just to think about it, or that I'm so tired or sick that I can barely pick my foot up off the floor. It's not a reflection on how I feel about the asker as a person - unless you're a douchebag wanker, but for the sake of argument let's assume that's not the case. 

Also, one 10 second introduction does not make you an expert in what makes me tick. Someone I am related to by marriage tried to cozy up to me very quickly and prove to me that we could be buddies, which depending on the length a person goes to can be a red flag. Every funny little 'in' joke this person tried to create involved what an obnoxiously opinionated, aggressively angry, catty bitch I was - said the person who made snide comments about the kind of clothes I wore, make-up, etc. See? Baggage. Also, pre-existing crazy, so the red flag was totally warranted. It's funny what people tell you about yourself who don't give you a word edgewise into a single conversation you have with them. 

And just so we're all on the same page (Warning, book may vary.), I have my own baggage I bring to the conversational landscape. I struggle to feel understood, to feel heard. I repeat myself. A lot. If you look away repeatedly, I'm going to assume you're not interested. If you want me to keep talking, I don't recommend a blank stare. "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, oh, uh huh" does not a conversation make. So if your baggage tells you that me repeating something means something, and my baggage makes me repeat unimportant details I think I might have not been clear about or want to make sure you know that I'm not worried about, we're not going to get very far.

What do you really know about anyone and do the opinions you hold about them reflect more about you than the other person? I'm sure it's variable based on your own insecurities, personal experience and more, as in how much of someone else can you take in once you've filtered them through your own bias. 

I'm pretty sure this didn't amount to what I thought it might when I started thinking about it earlier. But, I wrote. I took a break from the holiday chaos. And for me personally, I took the chance to explore for just a few minutes my need to be understood. And how amazing it is to me that I am so often misunderstood anyway. 

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving! 

You Too Can Escape Oblivion, Step 1. Avoid Oblivion

Halfway through this month should have marked the halfway point of NaNoWriMo, for anyone doing their best to tread water and cling to the daily average word count that is. The rest of you breaking the curve who are within spitting distance of (or already over) 50,000 words, bah. Just... just... I can't even with you right now, all right? For me, halfway came a few days late.

I started NaNo strong (IMHO), with a detailed outline but room for creative twists and turns, enthusiasm for my novel, writing support network, and a deep rooted desire to get the 'Winner' t-shirt that I'll never wear outside of my house. I marveled at how well I stuck to the daily word count this year with a little more ease and, dare I say, grace than last year. And then week 1 ended.

I was grumpy, tired, wanting to do anything other than sit at my desk or a cafe table swilling coffee like my life depended on it (it really did) and trying in vain to make the words come. Real life commitments changed. And by changed I mean straight up tripled. It's for a good cause, the health and well being of a few young people in my life, but it does impact my time resources.

So I bailed out for a few days. And by bailed out, I mean passed out asleep by 8 at night. Full disclosure this probably happened once or twice as well:

And this:

And most likely this:

There, I feel better now.

Before this, I had padded about an extra day's worth of words in with dreams and hopes of having several days of thousands upon thousands of words written to effortlessly glide to the finish. *snort* When I finally pulled myself together and mainlined coffee like a proper caffeine junkie, I was thousands and thousands of words behind. My NaNo stats page let me know my projected finish date was sometime late December.

For good measure.

Here's the thing though. I rallied. Yes, I bitched, but I rallied. (It's part of my charm.) I accepted the break was a necessity and didn't dwell much. I accepted the righteous power of word sprints, something previously unknown and snickered at by me, into my writing life. (I'm a word sprinting convert. It truly is obscene how much more productive they make me.) I have horribly abused coffee and forsaken sleep. I write on my phone while I'm in waiting rooms. My hands ache and swell every night, but I slap on a few topical pain relieving patches and keep on going. And I finally let go of trying to trudge through scenes were I feel stuck, put a pin and a few notes in them, and move on to what comes next. In 24 hours I packed in about 4,000 words. I'm still technically behind, but my NaNo stats page tells me that I need less than 2,000 words a day to finish on time. Totally doable with minimum bitching and moaning practices in place.

What feedback means to me, or how I didn't take a writing vacation this fall

One of the things that seems to be a natural progression when you establish a rapport with other writer types, or so it seems to me anyway, is the idea of feedback. In my sheltered experience, writing tends to be a solitary endeavor* so the idea of having people read your creations can be both exhilarating and a fate worse than death. Constructive (hopefully) criticism. Dun dun dun.

*Forgive me, I'm old. I am aware of a younger (in theory, ahem) generation's online role playing/interactive fanfiction text/chat/black magic apps/etc. For the purpose of this blog post, I'm only talking about butt in the chair, ignoring other people, headphones on with soundtrack of choice kind of writing. Once upon a time, I engaged in 'primitive' online versions of interactive fanfiction featuring original characters (or OCs). I will refrain from geeking out about that here though. Hopefully.

You can imagine then, that if I've spent more than 20 *gulp* years scribbling furiously about every idea in my head and sharing with next to no one (my period of online geeking out the only exception), the very idea of being ripped to shreds and finding out I'm really not any good is ... well... indescribably horrifying. Me write goodly. Or not.

As I've formed relationships (even if they're only in my head) with other writers, I have been pretty quiet when it comes to discussing my ideas, my plots, my characters, my writing, even if I'm just bursting at the seams about something I'm pretty chuffed about. I keep waiting for someone to point at me and reveal I'm a writing pretender. I keep waiting for someone to tell me it's the stupidest thing they've ever heard.

There is only one time in my life that I was told I didn't write anything special or worth reading. There are plenty (tell me more, tell me more) of times I was told the opposite. And yet, that one negative experience was from someone I considered to be one of the people closest to me and I was a teenager desperate for approval. In the years following, that person revealed her true nature and I spent the better part of my twenties figuratively sewing up the plethora of knife wounds in my back from her hand. So then why, if everything from her was manipulative, have I not been able to dismiss her words about my writing? Why is one person's negativity outweighing a modicum of self-confidence and positive feedback from others?

So. With much reluctance I went to a new critique group started by someone I know. I kicked. I screamed. I drug my feet. There may or may not have been biting. I reminded myself that many writers throughout history didn't have critique groups to rip apart their ideas. 9 rings is too many, 3 is easier for a reader to follow. Don't make her so contrary, who wants to read about a girl who doesn't know her place and a tragic comedy of errors that leads her to love? I'm not really clear on the motivation, why are these people stoning this character to death?  Then again, there are plenty of books that would have benefited from somebody, anybody saying something. I would never! Okay, maybe I would. It rhymes with Lime Hot A Mast Pole. ;-)  

Anywho.... I went. And then I went again. And then I bitched about having a writing assignment and went again. I am still not exactly a critique convert, BUT, it is kind of cool when you hear that people like what you've brought in. That's not to say that critique groups aren't helpful for plenty of people. I'm being completely honest to say that I'm really more in it for the excuse to have people read something I've written to test the waters. Being told I should post my most recent writing exercise online? I could have talked about that for days. No, really. Obnoxious, needy obsession. And then I refocused on NaNoWriMo and grumbled about daily word counts again. Secretly wanting to share my brilliance with the world...  And really, if people hadn't been so kind or positive about what I wrote, I probably would have chalked it up to being right in my insecurities and never gone back.

So to that nagging insecurity in the back of my head, shut-ith up-ith and sit-ith down-ith & hang on for the ride. It's time for something that sounds more like self-confidence to take over.

Stop....NaNo time

It's day 5 of the hostage crisis. And by that I mean National Novel Writing Month. And by that I mean a time when people who should ordinarily know better band together by the thousands (no seriously, over 300,000 participants this year) to attempt to write 50,000 words in 30 days. That's a 1,667 words per day for those of you keeping score. It's pretty safe to say individual mileage varies.

It's like sports for book nerds - with t-shirts and everything. And I secretly adore it as much as I openly whine about it.

This is my second year joining in (officially registered) with actual other people. I'd heard about NaNoWriMo years ago when I was writing with friends from high school. We did our own informal thing, which petered out quickly. Last year I stumbled back upon the idea, went to the website and signed up. At the end of October. With no prep. And so many people were talking about more than a month of prep. *gulp* I went to the first meeting (Imagine my surprise: an actual group that held actual meetings in my actual area. Trust me, everyone I've met in this group has echoed that thought. There are reasons.). I was late and had that God awful moment of walking up to a table of strangers where everyone is watching you. Social anxiety super powers, activate!

I tried not to be intimidated by everyone animatedly chatting about their ideas and the finer details of inspiration behind it all. I gave a generic genre for what I was writing, and little more. I've never talked writing shop with anyone in my adult years. I wasn't about to out myself as the resident dork without any shred of hope for a decent book. My idea? Oh it came from a dream I had. My ideas come from all over the place. My imagination doesn't know how to take a day off. But this particular science fiction idea had come to me in the form of a vivid dream of a scene I knew I could build on. (Less than Interesting tidbit, I had another dream later on that ended up being the plot for another story involving new characters in the same world. See? I'm a dork.) I was met with mostly blank stares as I explained, only when specifically questioned of course, that I wrote just about any kind of genre in fiction depending on mood, inspiration, etc. The handful of people who smiled encouragingly, thankfully, are among the only ones who came to meetings afterwards.

In the year since then, my writing life has changed. I look forward to getting together with other writing friends, shooting the breeze, talking shop, bouncing ideas around, getting and giving support, so on and so forth. When all things are in our favor, we do so several times a month. Illness, day jobs, family commitments don't always make that possible, but that outlet has been invaluable. I've found my tribe, as eclectic as we may be.

I also drink coffee now, spurred on by a deep need for caffeine and not wanting to be the weirdo at the coffee shop who doesn't drink coffee. That title belongs to a new friend of mine, and I hope she doesn't spit her iced soy cinnamon chai latte on her keyboard when she gets around to reading this. After years of at home coffee fails I finally figured out, by way of my local baristas and a global coffee powerhouse and another new friend who is a coffee aficionado, how to find the right balance of coffee, flavoring and milk to stave off the bitterness in coffee that had long left me a sniffer but not a drinker. Oh, and NOT drinking any kind of instant coffee is a big help in that department for those of you in a similar boat. I don't care what they've mixed in that rectangular tin and called it flavored coffee, it's not. I'll probably never be a coffee purist, but I can now appreciate it. And crave it.

This November, I waffled at the idea of NaNo even though of course I was going to do it again. I narrowed down my choices to two ideas that had been calling to me throughout my year working on another project. I changed my mind a few times and mocked up simple book covers for each one (the better to be invested in your NaNo novel and encourage you to "win", so says the website). For the first time in my entire life, I explained the plot of my selection to a person I was not related to with all the paranoia of someone selling national secrets.

This year's inaugural meeting, I knew and regularly saw several of the people who would be going. I chatted up and online friended newbies who knew no one. I did the same at the next meeting. I was stupid excited at the amount of new faces that continued to show up. And above else, I was thrilled to talk shop and reciprocate endless rounds of  "Me, too!" as we shared our experiences and evolving processes. Some days writing is agonizingly slow. Some days it is magically engaging. But having people who get that and march along that same track, regardless of whether they write for hobby, for publication or something else entirely, is priceless.

Apparently I'm a bit of a writing extrovert. Who knew? If not for NaNoWriMo, I certainly wouldn't. So if you'll excuse me, my caffeine is kicking in and I have 1,667 words and a writing assignment to get to. And maybe just one more cup of coffee...

Happy Writing!

Happy Halloween

As I've mentioned before, I love me some fall goodness. Halloween is upon us and I think the best way to greet it is to share my favorite memory.

As I outgrew trick-or-treating (something not everyone does I realize), I took solace in my other favorite Halloween activity of passing out candy and seeing all the teeny tiny kids proudly show their costumes. My first few years of marriage were spent in an apartment, so we had very few candy beggers visitors those years which bummed me out.

I was excited to spend Halloween in our first rental house in a big neighborhood worth plenty of kids. One year, it had been about 45 minutes since the last group of older kids (the harbingers of empty candy bowls) came by so I was considering turning off the light and calling it a night. There was a soft knock at the door. A little guy in a superhero costume, no more than 6 or 7, stood with his exhausted mother. She was super apologetic from the moment I opened the door. She was a waitress and had gotten off shift late and promised to take her son out. I smiled, reminded her that my light was still on so there was no problem and dumped the remainder of my candy bowl (probably 3/4 full with the dregs of various candy bags dumped in)  into his almost empty bag.

His eyes went wide. Her eyes teared up and her voice caught. I told her to be sure and stop by again next year.

That is my all time favorite Halloween memory. What's yours?

Think Thank Thunk

I'm in a bit of a blogging drought at the moment. My whole house is recovering from a cold/bronchitis/plague and being on doggy deathwatch is what it is. My writing brain is hyper-focused on NaNoWriMo, aka let's take an ordinarily busy month of the year and make it an international writing event with the goal of writing 50,000 words in 30 days. Or National Novel Writing Month, for those of you hung up on details and accuracy. I have been bouncing between two ideas (and putting my current project on my internal back burner), effectively occupying my brain with character backgrounds, world building and plot outlines.

It is nice to be (mostly) over being sick. That fifth week of a cold can get to you, know what I mean? *cough-pneumonia-cough* I find it incredibly difficult to get lost in books when I have a head cold/sinus infection/plague, so I managed to do some serious binge watching of shows I'm super behind on. Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Haven, Vicious, The IT Crowd, etc. Don't even get me started on my delight at catching BBC America's airing of The Rocky Horror Show.

My last blog post involved finding out my senior dog has a few weeks to live according to our vet. I was not sure what this week would look like given that information. I notified my siblings to figure out how they wanted to handle their kids (my dog was my niblings' first dog and at least 2 of them want to say goodbye while they can). I tearfully researched what to expect, trying to figure out how I have the right to decide he should be put to sleep while I also want to prevent him unnecessary suffering/pain/fear. I went out and got wet dog food to give him as long as he's able to eat to make him happy. The vet's office called since then to let me know that while he's dying of cancer, he also has a heart condition and needs medicines to help make him more comfortable. In the intervening 3 weeks, he has gone on hikes, slurped up the added wet food with abandon, got his first tick (which I thankfully seem to have noticed and removed in the optimum timeframe before the damned thing finished feeding) and is on as much blood pressure medicine as any of the older human folk in our home. He has shown no signs of slowing down, aside from skipping the last spoonful of his meals from time to time. So, I'm trying to appreciate each day that we have with him still and keep him as happy and relatively spoiled as he can tolerate.

As far as NaNoWriMo, we'll see what happens. Last year's project has spanned most of this year (with time out for short stories and the frequent odd new story ideas to outline). I still want to finish that project and see potential in it, but I'm excited to switch gears and work with different characters in a different setting. Maybe I'll choose to look at November as a time to recommit to writing as the last month or two have been less than optimally productive.  You know, instead of bitch and moan about fitting in 50,000 words in the middle of holiday season. Like I normally do.

Don't tell me they aren't family

When I was six or seven, my dad went to the pound and brought home my first dog. I was over the moon. I remember taking her out to the yard (on her leash) early one morning to do her business, and the absolute horror as she slipped her collar and dashed across the grass. I bolted after her, leaping upon her as she stopped to sniff something on a whim. I remember thinking, just before I caught her, how no matter how loud I yelled nobody in the house would hear me in time to help me catch her before she ran off. I carried her back inside, with about as much difficultly as you'd expect a pip squeak carrying a squirming mutt of a dog to have. I don't remember feeding her, but I assure you she was fed. I don't remember what she looked like, except that she was black with little white paws.  I remember that my brother tripped over her on or around Christmas, because she came racing up to me and I scooped her up amid the chaos that ensued. I remember that she used to chew on power cords, would eat her own poop if given the chance and bit me hard enough to draw blood at least twice. I can't recall how long we had her, but it couldn't have been more than a few months at the most, maybe less. Because between the last three things I mentioned, my dad declared that she had to to back. Specifically after the biting me thing. I didn't have another dog until after I got married.

Before moving forward, a quick word about my dad's decision. It wasn't an easy one for him, and as an adult now I understand why he made the decision at the time just as well as I cringe at the reality that the dog lacked training and God knows what her life before us had been like. I've also learned as an adult, just how seriously my dad takes owning a dog and how hard losing one is for him, which is how I can speak to how difficult it was for him to take the dog back. In the end, he did what he thought was best for the safety of his children and there's no way to argue about that.

Moving on...

I was skittish with dogs after the experience. My best friend at the time had dogs and going over to her house I tried not to let on how uncomfortable I was. They never did a thing to me, but I just knew that dogs bit and it hurt and I wanted no part of it. It probably didn't help at the time that at any given moment there'd be a news story about a vicious dog attack or how dangerous some breeds could be. The media baiting sensational stories for ratings is not new, and if you grew up at the same time, you're probably still waiting for the killer bees, acid rain and wondering if we finally hair sprayed away the last of our ozone layer.

So when I married a dyed in the wool dog person, I knew eventually I'd have to come to terms with my little issue. My plan was to put this off as long as I could. My husband's plan was to drag me to every pet store and adoption event he could to tempt me with the appeal of soft, fuzzy baby dogs. (As technology and 'adopt don't shop' have evolved, his plan now involves showing me pictures of rescue dogs. He's evil.) I stood by my reasonable arguments. We lived in an apartment, we should wait until we're in a house with a yard. (It's a pet friendly apartment, my husband countered, with plenty of green space around.) There is upkeep involved. (A bag of dog food isn't a huge addition to our grocery bill. We can go to the vet his dad uses, as he's very reasonably priced and knows the family.)

I switched tactics. Having been raised with dogs his whole life and being exposed to a variety of breeds (and mutts) by extended family and friends, there wasn't really a dog he couldn't get along with, but he had his heart set on one of a few breeds he'd always liked but hadn't owned yet. I had recently been to a friend's house and been exposed to a delightful little beagle. Mild mannered, lots of personality, sweet-natured. Absolutely freaking adorable. I did a little research. I shot down a few of his breeds out of protection for my heart: short life span, known to have lots of health problems, basically anything that I knew would make my heart be ripped out of my chest in the blink of an eye. In the end, beagles, I suggested, were known to live up to 15 or more years (in some cases 18) and had very few major health issues that could be life threatening. My husband, not one to be deterred, happily told me that his uncle had had beagles for years and they're great dogs. It wasn't his dream dog, but if that's what I wanted (and it got him a little four legged furry creature) then that's what we'd look for (aka start with).

I wasn't so much worried about being bitten at this point. As an adult with a job and in a committed relationship trying very hard to figure out this whole grown-up thing, I was much more concerned with the realization A. I would be completely responsible for the health and safety of this little animal and more problematic B. that dogs die. There would come a day when that sweet little face would fade away. And it would be gut wrenching. That was my ultimate fear, but peppered in were fears about not being a good enough pet parent, would I do right by a dog, would I be able to give him or her everything he or she needed. Preventing injury and illness and coping with the unavoidable. What would happen to the dog if something happened to me? All the fears I considered when thinking about becoming a human parent, with the added knowledge that (most likely) I would outlive this furbaby. Again, that whole gut wrenching thing I mentioned earlier.

So my husband did the only reasonable thing he could think to do. After dragging me to another pet store while we were out running errands (and me refusing to get out of the car when we first arrived) he told me (in front of an employee) that I should just hold one of the beagle puppies. I did everything short of wish him dead as the employee hopped on board the Emotional Blackmail Express and asked which one I'd like to hold as she'd be more than happy to help. After several minutes of not taking no for an answer, I finally pointed out the little girl pup who had caught my eye. I sat in the little 'getting to know you' area and waited for several minutes, my husband carefully out of arm's reach lest I beat the living hell out of him. Finally, the girl returned and plunked down a very sleepy beagle puppy in my arms. As I held the not so squirmy bundle to my chest, she told me the one I picked out had just fallen asleep, but this little boy was in need of attention. He was soft and warm and terribly small. And then he sealed my fate forever. That little beagle puppy, of his own volition, rested his head on my shoulder and sighed contentedly in my ear. To make matters worse, a name popped into my mind at the very moment. A name that for some reason had been on my mind off and on lately. I held this little beagle boy and knew his name instantly.

We couldn't afford him, I knew. It hurt to give him back and leave the store, but I knew what our bank account had in it. Hurt and pissed off I returned home and checked the mail, finding an unexpected check from our car insurance company. Hand to God, there was a check that would cover the little dog who I spent the whole car ride home worrying about. The pet store closed in less than 30 minutes and was a town away. I called the pet store and somehow convinced them that if they would keep the doors open for me and get him ready, I would be there by the time they closed. Somehow, we deposited the check in the ATM of our bank, got on the expressway and made it to the store before they closed. I've still got the little Easter egg bandana they had tied around his neck after they gave him a bath, impossible to think he was ever that small. The employee told us that he was actually discounted because he had been there so long, so in the end we were able to pick up a puppy starter kit with a crate, bed and all the bits and bobs we (probably didn't) might need as well. The manager stepped out and was upset that the employee had discounted him and started to make a fuss. I looked at her and said, I've already paid, if you want him back you'll have to take him from my cold, dead fingers. My husband laughed as the manager didn't know quite what to make of me. She carefully stepped away and disappeared. After getting all the paperwork taken care of (all his shot records, microchip info, etc) we loaded him up almost an hour later and headed for home.

It's been more than twelve and a half years since that night. We added a little girl beagle, this time a rescue in poor shape, when the little guy was about 3. We lost her four years later to complications following surgery due to cancer. It was not a loss we were prepared for. I'll be forever grateful for our vet at the time, my husband's family's vet, for his care of our little wild one and his care of us in the aftermath. Slowly I started thinking about opening our hearts to another dog, and our bouncy little miss sassy pants (some kind of hound mix) came by way of another rescue. Beagles are very popular dogs, but their stubborn noses and endless tummies don't make them ideal pets for everyone. And that nose of theirs tend to make them wander. I can't count the number of times the little girl dogs got out. I can tell you that when the little boy dog got out the first time with our first girl dog, he came right to our front door and scratched because he wanted back in. Thank God he's pretty spoiled and he knows it. The girl dogs have never been able to think past their nose, but he's never strayed far.

Yesterday at the dogs' annual check up, I noticed the vet's (We've moved away from our original vet, but seem to have found another good one. Knock on wood.) expression become intent. While listening to the boy dog's heart and lungs, the expression became concerned. He suggested a few tests and said he may need heart medicine. The tests confirmed a heart issue, but more alarmingly, accidentally revealed a huge tumor.

So, I've finally hit that dreaded time I worried about so long ago. The vet said he's got weeks. He probably wouldn't survive any measures of attacking the tumor, which is most definitely malignant. If he did survive, it would only buy him a few months at most. Somehow, I managed to not fall on the floor sobbing, and with only sporadic pauses to keep my composure and biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at a wipeable minimum, talk about the best approach. I explained that while I wanted to do whatever I could for him, I didn't want to lose him to a heart attack after the operation while he was surrounded by strangers, like our last loss. The vet completely understood, telling me he just gone through this exact scenario with his own senior dog, and chose to let the dog live the time he had left at home until it was time to put him to sleep when the discomfort became too much for the dog. He apologized for having to give me bad news. I dismissed his apology right away. I told him it's better to know this is coming, so that we aren't blindsided by a horrific series of events. I want so much better than that for him. I want him to die in his sleep, a ripe 19 years old, as comfortable on a memory foam mattress as his joints will allow, his age whitened face the picture of ease while my hand rests gently on his back. Since that's no longer in the cards, I want the best we can manage with this draw.

Explaining that to each household member, I broke down at different points along the story. But by the time I told my husband later that day, I made it through the whole thing before I broke down again. My husband told me, holding back his own tears, that it's going to be okay. Bitterly (towards the situation and not at directed at him) I told him, it's not okay, but it is what it is. Almost thirteen years is a pretty long life for a dog, but in this moment it's not enough. That idealized age I tried to picture wouldn't have been enough. This little dog who couldn't ride in the car more than a mile before he'd puke everywhere the first half of his life, who bounded into my lap and kept my husband away from me when my nose caught the remote control he tossed to me that my fingers missed, couldn't have a long enough life as far as I'm concerned.

After I got home & gave him an iron supplement prescribed by the vet, I went out and picked up canned food. If he's got weeks left to live, I want his tail wagging at every meal while he still wants to eat. I tried not to relive every moment I didn't do 'enough' (in my mind) for him or wasn't the perfect pet parent as I went to sleep last night. I tried not to think about what it's going to be like when the time comes. I tried very hard to force myself to take this one day at a time, living in each moment I have with him. I'm also trying very hard remember that our girl dog will still be here after he's gone (at least as long as the fence gate stays shut and she doesn't dart for the front door). I don't want her to feel any less loved because we're going through this process.

Tonight I'll carefully guide him outside to take care of business before bed, as age has already dimmed his vision. I'll make embarrassingly sweet small talk with him as I give him his treat and ask him where he wants to sleep. (Some nights he bunks with my parents, some nights he bunks with us and some nights he starts off with one of us and comes to the other in the middle of the night.) I'll love on him just before the point he gets fussy so he won't strut off in a huff.

I don't know how I'm going to handle what's coming. I told my father last night, this is where I have to learn to let go. There's no amount of information or research that's going to change the outcome. There's no amount of examination of the whys and hows that will change that this has happened. And there's no amount of preparation that will make what's coming any easier. I have no control over this situation and I have to let go. I will break. We will grieve. We will, all of us, put ourselves together again with a definable piece missing. I'll put his collar in a keepsake box, like his 'sister's' before him, and wonder at how lucky I was to have him teach me what it is to love and be loved in the most unconditional way.

I will always be the better for having him in my life. And I will always remember and be grateful for how that first snuggly sigh changed my life.