Putting Meat on the Bones

How lovely it would be to begin this post with “some of you have been wondering why I haven’t written since April.” It would be lovely, but it would also be a lie. In reality, nobody has given a shit about the blog gathering dust for nearly eight months. So why am I even here today? Because I’m tenacious, that’s why.

This year has pretty much been an endless shit parade from the beginning. Early on, we were told our beautiful, lovely, grumpy, talkative, kissy old dog Rufus was going to die. Soon. The reason he’d been coughing so frequently after a good romp was a tumor that had nestled in so close to his heart, it could not be removed. Rufi died at the end of April. Blogging seemed like frilly self-indulgence.

Two weeks later, our sweet, goofy, leany, toy squeaking snugglebug Mäxchen died suddenly and unexpectedly early on a Tuesday morning. Writing became meaningless. What could I possibly have to say to anyone?

In June, after weeks of trying to get the local vet to invest enough time to arrive at an actual and accurate diagnosis and sadly failing, my little Em died of kidney failure, no doubt in more pain and discomfort than any creature should have to endure. My brain turned off its reading function.

If by now you’re guessing that it’s been a shit year, congratulate yourself on your perceptiveness. Death has eaten well in our house.

There was a small break during an exhaustively disgusting summer which was so unsuitable for dogs, it kind of took the edge off the grief for a bit. Then came fall. DH’s aunt passed away, another sudden loss. The leaves turned, the temperatures declined, everything began to look like beautiful woods. Like home. Like places Rufi and Max and I would have walked. The year gave me a tight-lipped grin. Ain’t over yet, mate. All I wanted to do was to stay on my couch and stare off into space but husband and wife do not live on dust bunnies alone, and work wasn’t going to pay me for looking tragic.

Two days ago, it snowed. My grandmother called to let me know she was going to the hospital, “something with the kidneys.” Kidney failure, my sister says. My mother, her stubborn mother’s stubborn daughter, says she doesn’t care. I’d missed the call, and when I tried to ring back, I kept getting a message that the number was not available. Probably didn’t hang up the phone right.

DH and I are working on some holiday spirit. We have a tree. We have some candles. We did some mulled wine and grilled sausage last night on our new patio that DH had decorated with Christmas lights. It was just the two of us out there in the snowy dark, briefly joined by the cat who found it too chilly. We ate. We drank. We were smoked on by the fire. I cried.

The year ain’t done yet, mate.