On day 3 of Bess’s absence I wake up with and go to sleep with a dogged downness that I want to surmount as soon as possible. Wine numbs but doesn’t fix it. I hate grieving because of how my brain keeps reverting perversely to sights and sounds I long to unsee and unhear — the spectacle, relatively brief, but that’s cold comfort — of my innocent young pet’s anguish; the horrifying moment when she rolled on her side, had a spasm, which is the moment, I surmise, when she effectively expired, the remaining breaths she drew just being the body doing what it does until it shuts down. Why does the mind do that? Is it some internal mechanism that dictates that, in order to get over it, you have to keep reliving the worst part of your disaster? I just want to spew scatological invective over having to feel these feelings and suffer this insult to my mediocre contentment, this senseless deprivation of my companion, my stupid precious dog.
I’m relatively resilient. I have things to do and promises to keep, and the water works have to dry up for these projects to go forward. How much salty liquid do we store, for pity’s sake? I don’t intend to mention this event again, and beg indulgence for dwelling on it here, hoping that going through rather than around will help put it to rest. My loss is a drop in the ocean compared to the horrible things that happen in the world every second of every day, but it takes a while to heal the sting and get to that perspective.
(c) 2018 JMN.