Thursday, December 29, 2005
Dogs Are Good
Grief blows. I can't seem to beat it. I understand avoidance now--people avoid dealing with "the bad" because it feels sucky.
Trying to be a Buddhist about it—by renouncing past and routine—works for about a day. And I have met people with health problems. "You still have your health," they tell me.
Instead of being relieved and counting my blessings as Jared's grandmother would instruct me to do, I think: "Oh, great, I still have farther to fall."
Time healing all needs to kick in soon. I'm sick of this. You readers are probably tired of it too. Maybe moving to Kuwait will help. At least it won't be cold and gray outside.
Murphy is here to help me out.
Murphy is an 11-year-old Pit Bull mix. She is Yancey's dog, and he has gone to San Francisco on an important secret mission. So Murphy is snoring away on the cushion next to me. She's a loud snorer. Dogs are a pain to walk but Murphy puts her head on my lap when I'm sad. It's an honor because Murphy only likes eight people.
But it must be said that I've had nicer jobs than picking up steaming dog shit off the ground.