In these questionable times, there is only one sure thing: If your dog gets cancer, you cut it the motherfucking out.
This is not a method that has worked for me in the past, with three out of four dead dogs having succumbed to cancer in some form. Once tragically. Not all deaths are tragic, though many are lamented. But one, one dog's death was tragic.
But today, B's beloved Josie is recovering, a miracle -- we were just visiting her at the vet, and it seems they neglected to tell us yesterday that they all expected her to die before surgery, most assuredly during surgery if she made it that far, or sometime in the night after, if she somehow survived surgery. And she has survived! And is eating, and seeming, well, actually better than yesterday, when she was slipping away before our eyes.
I haven't cried this month since last month. And looking back, I think all that crying right before fucking Christmas was unwarranted, because losing your dog is worse than idiotic relations and the general pressure of the holidays (not a merry time of year, no matter what anyone says).
Here's the thing: I know we're not out of the woods yet. And anxiety is my bestest friend ever, so here I am babbling, because the silence in the house is making me want to scream and break things.
small stone, day fourteen:
orange cat sitting by steel bars
staring with orange eyes at dog within
i don't believe in guardian angels
Thanks to everyone who read my interview with Richard Godwin, who left a comment, who emailed me to say uplifting things -- you guys are great. I would've liked to comment individually, so please accept my apologies, as the last three days have been a mental drain.