Gadora’s been making a good go of a great opportunity here in Austin — full-time work is hard, y’all — and sadly it has carved a little into some of my creative mojo at home. While I’m grateful to be exercising certain talents by designing the office’s downstairs lounge, and am proud of our big win at Lifeworks’ recent Home Improvement Challenge (story forthcoming), I find I miss writing. And certainly miss sweating in the shop every day.
I still manage the time to remember cantankerous Harley and the sweetest Peepers. 6 months later, I wrestle with knowing I did the right thing for them. Recently I snugged up on a spunky kitten, and then a perfectly healthy and quite OLD cat, and can’t help but feel We. Got. Robbed. They were supposed to live forever. My cousin is having a hard time with her 16-year-old Schnauzer. Bridgette is her only baby. And they’re dealing with aggressive melanoma. They still have time. My Cuz is relishing it, texted tonight to say Bridgette was enjoying the freedom of her new du. While it wouldn’t make her feel better, I admitted “it” doesn’t get easier once they’re gone. I wholeheartedly understand her. The loss of a pet is quite possibly the most difficult thing a (human) childless parent will face. You are NEVER prepared.
One never knows when the need to deal with a loss that big will come creeping up on you. In fact, I ruined a perfectly lovely concert at Austin’s recent ACL when Dawe’s belted out “When My Time Comes.” The crowd sang. I did too. But I also cried. Harley hated that song. Well, maybe not the song so much as mine and the BFF’s rendition (we’re not about to try out for American Idol anytime soon). He’d follow us around the house and lunge for the jugular, or ankles, whatevs. Dawes was on the docket, and I knew they’d play it for us. I had to hear it. As if I needed a good excuse to cry in public, I relished this one.