So Self-Absorbed

I think it is the nature of blogging that lends one to blither on about things that would normally be passed over. Before I started inflicting my thoughts on the internet, and you, my fine friends, I would think a thought, have a feeling, muse upon something ridiculous, and then it'd be gone in the ether. On to the next deep thought or absurdity.

But now, noooooo. I must regurgitate for all who stumble on here, either by accident or design. I really don't feel too badly about it, I mean, we can all chose to go elsewhere. And I certainly care, and care deeply what is going on in your lives and heads. Why else would I keep reading your blogs? I adore your blogs. Not like my poor, dear friends who I go to lunch with each week. They are stuck with my drivel, at least until the check comes. But then, I am also a captive audience to them. Tit for tat. Actually, I care and care deeply for what concerns my friends. Plus, they are screamingly funny, like you lot are.

So. How am I?

Surprisingly fine.

I say that with no little amazement.

When our beloved Maia died, about 2 years ago (9 year-old German Shepherd, waaaay too intelligent for our own good. We had to seriously spell around her. Not joking. Anything to do with food, playing ball or going outside had to be spelled. She had a human vocabulary of about 50 words and phrases. She died suddenly in the fall of '03 from canine bloat.), it took about 2 days for the screaming, hot tears of raw grief to pass, then another 2 months for it to pass into serene grief, where we didn't tear slightly when we came home and weren't greeted by a large pointy nose in the nether-regions. A total of 6 months before we were ready to have another dog (Emma).

This time, we sobbed for all of Thursday, moped for Friday, and Saturday, were ready to consider another furry one.

I don't understand, I really don't. It certainly isn't because we love one dog more. No more than you'd love one kid more. Nope.

Perhaps because we had more preparation up front? In our hearts, we knew that what was wrong with Emma was some really bad shit. Maia was fine until she suddenly got sick, went to surgery, which was a success, and then died, because the fuckers kicked her out of the animal emergency clinic only an hour after emergent abdominal surgery. They put her in the back of the SUV at a bit after midnight on a Saturday, because the clinic closed from midnight until 8am the next morning. Now, they didn't tell us of it, when we called, with a classic case of bloat at 9pm on the Friday. Nope. They had Charles drive the 45 minutes to their clinic, did the surgery, and then evicted them. She opened up on the way back to the vet clinic in Freeport, which refused to accept her, despite agreeing on the phone, re-taped her, and sent her back to a 3rd clinic in Rockford (another 45 minutes). The 3rd clinic, staffed by wonderful vets, tried their best to save her, but she died on the table, the result of her too early discharge. Had she been a human on some heartless HMO, she'd have had better care.

Not bitter. Nope.

Emma received top-notch, utterly compassionate care. Everything right was done, and for the right reasons.

You might say that Maia, being very healthy and only about 11 years old by this time, should still be with us, and we would have never known Emma. What a horrible thought. Yet, we have thought it.

I don't know.

Clearly, the universe is a bitch-goddess, and we are Her bitches.

Heh. Bitch. Female dog. Heh.

Anyway, back to my self-absorbed ramblings:

So, there I am in the shower on Friday and I realize that I just miss a furry, adorable, pain-in-the-ass, shedding, happy, trip-over-her-in-the-dark, pile of fuzz. A pile of fuzz that occasionally pukes in the house and frequently poops, not in the side yard, but on the path where we walk. And a cat.

Damn, I miss a cat.

We lost our pain-in-the-ass, soft, cuddly, neurotic cat, Booger (Ok, her real name was Banzai, but what cat goes by her real name, I ask you?) about 6 years ago. On Christmas Eve, no less, due to a sudden, massive neurologic event, probably a stroke. As Colin was about a year old at that time and Maia was about 5 and we were contemplating a move within the next year, we didn't get another cat. But we've missed one. And then Sara came along. And then Emma. And the move out here, and the timing was just never right

Until now.

Can you tell I'm having some guilt?

So, there I am, only a day or 2 after my beloved Emma is gone and, jeez, they haven't even done the autopsy, yet, so I can't even say that she is cold in her grave (or hot in her furnace, as we are having her cremated), and I am thinking of new pets.

And the name, " Molly."

I broach the subject with Charles and he has had the same shameful thoughts. So, maybe they aren't shameful, after all. Maybe the time really is right. So, he looks online.

And today, we went and met Molly. And then, there was this adorable 8-week-old ball of dark, chocolate brown fuzz with golden eyes that could sleep curled in the palm of my hand, who preferred to hang with the puppies than with the other farm cats on the porch of the home of the lovely people who just happened to have a litter of German Shepherd puppies born 6 weeks ago. Puppies who are starting to wean and will be ready at precisely the time we can devote a couple of weeks to intensive attention and training on the 15th of December.

Unless they need to come home sooner, of course. *cough, cough*

Besides, how could you resist this? (Scroll down and absorb all the gooey puppy cuteness.)

Fate? Chance?

I dunno. I just know that this Christmas, my gift to Charles and his give to me comes with hairballs and chew toys.

Be joyful for us.

I think Emma would be.