words on love and loss for a sweet dog

. . . every relationship we have is in some ways completely unknowable to anyone outside of its tiny, intimate circle. It will not come our way again in this lifetime. Be grateful.
Today's post technically falls under the "guest curator" category, and I wish the guest were here to thank.  Althea Hukari was a theatre artist, writer, and teacher based in Hood River OR.  She passed on last September after many years living with Stage 4 breast cancer.  I use the verb "living" on purpose, for while she did all that medicine recommended in her case, the words "surviving" or "fighting" don't ring true to the woman I remember.  Not that her situation didn't impact her.  Of course it did. But Althea was about life: the life we share here, the life of the mind.  Her blog, Buddha and the Big C, shows you this abundantly.    

Last June, Althea's beloved dog Tilly Jane died after 12 years of loving companionship.
Yesterday as I stood at the top of my stairs, not hearing Tilly's nails click on the floor below me, not seeing her sweet face peer up to check on my progress, not saying for the first time in 12 years, "Good morning, my sweetest girl-est" (yes, I spoke that way with her and I am not the least ashamed to tell you so), my loss hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I sat down on that top stair and wept my proverbial heart out.

So what do you do with your loss?  Do you understand someone will lose you, too, someday?  Not a light thing to consider, but I wanted to offer this because Althea's words deeply examine the loss of her dear dog and loss in general, and when I remember losing my Zozo I wish I'd had this to read. Perhaps you need it today.  Move on if it is not the right day, but it will be here for you.

Love and loss.