End of Eras

My Fruitpie and I decided to move our office upstairs and turn the downstairs bedroom back into a guest room.  We’ve probably done this three or four times since we moved here, but this time the office is moving to the great room upstairs.  She has been working hard the past few weeks, going through old boxes we never fully unpacked and throwing out trash.  Lately, I’ve just been feeling like getting rid of everything.  All of those pieces of who I once was…what my life used to be…they have no place here anymore.  I don’t need symbols of memories cluttering up my house.  They are already locked away in my mind…brought back to life in an autumn breeze or the scent of hot chocolate.  These are things I do not need.  I am not that person anymore.  We made donation piles from one of the closets, and I decided to include my leather jacket from high school.  Hundreds of memories are attached to that thing…and it was so well loved that the lining is ripped, the leather is worn and tattered and the once black buttons took on a pinkish tinge.  I guess it might have been better suited for the trash than the donation pile, but who knows what value others may find in it?  I did away with a lot of other things, too.  It felt almost like a mission, really.

It’s strange how life continues without you.  The places you’ve left fill in the empty space like you never existed…as it should be, I guess.  Otherwise things would fall apart…and they do fall apart, but usually for the people and not the places.  Sometimes I wonder how my life looks from the outside to the people I used to know.  How do I look from afar?  It’s like we are constantly on this search for ourselves…and probably for some of us, end up being a hundred different people in a lifetime.  Maybe I wanted to be an actress so I could get through the spectrum more quickly and seemingly sanely.  Maybe I’m just talking out of my ass as one does in those early mornings, fueled by two cups of coffee and guilt that I should be working out right now.  I feel disgusting.  Ugly, fat, mediocre.  Inconsequential, maybe.

Sometimes I think of my adolescent dream of buying a ranch in the northeast, learning to weld and becoming entirely nocturnal for a year.  I would forge creations to sustain myself…to keep me wam, fed, afloat.  It seems impractical, but romantic in a desperately lonely sort of way.  Part of me still wants to move to a colder place where the snow falls in winter.  I could raise sheep or alpacas and make yarn from their fleece.  I could grow my own vegetables and fruit.  My Fruitpie would be a mechanic or a pilot…dusting crops or fixing old cars.  I’d take in old strays, saying that I’m fostering and she would roll her eyes because she knows me better than that.  Or, we could sell everything and buy a yacht instead of a house.  We could sail the caribbean and I could overcome my fear of waves.  I could become a chef  and Fruitpie could rent kayaks out on the beach.  Or, we could become innkeepers and I could bake little treats for our guests every day.  I could learn to make yarn from sugarcane fiber…after, of course, learning to make fiber from sugarcane.

I need to get ready for work.  My muscles are sore from sleeping funny and I am craving a cigarette like mad right now.  I feel morbidly obese…and should have worked out this morning…but, I conveniently spent too long daydreaming about what could but likely never will be.  Now I have nothing to do but make some sense of my hair and figure out what I could put on that won’t make me feel like a walrus.

 

Night Sounds

It has been a rough couple of months and this week seems like one of many that have passed that feels like the last straw.  The infertility struggle feels like such old news, but it still weighs ever more heavily with each passing month and every failed cycle.  With both of us busy at work and pumped full of our own separate hormones, it’s been like cats in a bag at times.  One minute we’re snuggling peacefully and the next we’re head over tail, claws extended.  Well, I really picture myself more of the arched back, fluffled up, circling cat and my Fruitpie the one in the middle with a paw at the ready.  Today was a good day between us, but everything we lack control over seems to push in ever stronger.  Every night this week, I’ve found myself in a knitting frenzy.  I’ve made Fruitpie two pairs of gloves, one for myself and a baby hat…and I’ve finally mastered the proper way to hold the yarn.  The clicking of the needles seems to calm my nerves.  The clicking, the rhythm, the soft fiber feeding steadily through my fingers.  It’s something I can actually control…and it produces something productive.  I think I might actually tackle a sweater when I’m done with my christmas knitting.  I’ve pretty much done everything else that I found intimidating before…lace, intarsia, cables.  If I’m still around in January (I always feel like I’m going to be the next one fired), I am slated to teach a knitting class on one of our wellness wednesdays.  I don’t really feel qualified since I’ve only taught myself and only been knitting a year at that.  But, I can at least show the basics, I guess.

The office environment has been tense as ever.  My friend the receptionist got fired a month ago and they had a replacement the following week.  Now the volunteer coordinator is leaving because they told her she had to work five days or none at all after five years of a three day schedule.  It’s such an odd thing to me after having lost a day out of the week.  It’s been such a rough year for everybody.  Usually I try to take stock of all of the good things that have come to pass, but all I can think of right now are the bad.  We lost Mable, Tucker lost his leg, my hours got cut, our mortgage is going up, we only have one more shot at IVF, my BCPs aren’t doing what they’re supposed to, Fruitpie is miserable with all of her hormone meds and having to come off of the pain killers, the kid and all of the drama that came with her…the list really goes on.  I’m trying not to dwell on it, but I guess I just have to get it out of my head and off into the chasm of cyberspace.

My dreams lately have been disturbing at best.  Every night I have at least one that involves my parents in some way.  Last night it had something to do with speaking Hebrew with my dad and watching a horrible video tape of a bris wherein the disembodied foreskin was put into a meat grinder with other pieces of foreskin from the day and baked into a pie.  In the dream, I vomited.  I’m glad I didn’t in reality.  Somehow this led to me being a black man with a finger that shot bullets like a gun.  All I had to do was point at someone and they’d be dead.  I blew up a car full of people I shot outside a convenience store and a hoity toity christian woman came running in saying that she called the cops on us.  I told the clerk to kill her, but he chickened out and stabbed her with a swiss army knife.  I got annoyed, grabbed a blade and slit her throat.  When we heard sirens, I hid under porches…which were actually over pools of water that I tried to quietly wade through.  I finally got under a treehouse where the man who owned the property took me in and hid me in a false room inside a closet.  At that point, I took on the persona of several former occupants of the house.  It became a home for orphaned mentally ill children.  The dream progressed through our childhood into adulthood.  We had a strange dynamic, but it somehow worked.  I became the leader of the group whose dream was to go out into the world with the people who lived across the street…who happened to be the entire cast of midgets from the wizard of oz.  I somehow managed to make myself a shiny, metallic gold to impress them and mustered the courage to go across the street one day.  There were normal people there and they were laughing at me.  I was confused because I didn’t understand anything beyond the strange society that had developed in my bizarre household.  I went back home defeated, but pretended to be victorious so nobody else in the house would be disheartened.

I wonder what Jennifer would have to say about that bizarre jumble of subconscious phenomena.

My head is pounding and I’m actually a little afraid to go back to sleep tonight…not that the dreams last night were bad, per se.  I just don’t know what my brain has in store for me and that is always a little frightening.  My Fruitpie just drained the water from her bath and I can hear the TV through the ceiling.  I want to start working on the lil devil baby hat so I can get it to our little nephew in time for his first halloween.  I have no doubt that I’ll finish it, but I still worry that I might not…and I want to give my girl a chance to fall asleep before I go up.  I know she needs her rest and we just keep each other awake when we’re in bed.  We can’t keep our hands off each other, even if it’s just to cuddle.  Not that I’m complaining.  I am so in love with my wife…even more with each passing year.  It’s hard to believe that it’s been over six.  We have been through so much together and I just hope that there will be some easy, happy years ahead…and not in hindsight.

 

On and on

I am almost done with my first week back and already it feels like I was never gone.  My boss left everything for me…including the important things that I expressly asked her to do.  It really annoys me, even though I am not the least bit surprised.  She’s a lazy woman and not too bright.  It’s irritating that the only way to get anything done is to do it yourself.   I suppose I’ve always known that, though.  My dad left me a message the other day asking for money again.  I called him back and left a message (after a rum & coke and a cigarette), but he never called back.  He probably already knows that the answer is no.  I am not a font of riches and I shouldn’t have to worry about my parents’ finances.  I’m almost thirty years old…I have my own family to worry about.  He said he has to pay the DWP $1500 or they will shut off the utilities and they don’t have money for food.  I feel sorry for them, but I just can’t oblige them every damned time they get themselves in this mess…and they always manage to.  I’m sure my brother will rush to the rescue again and he will be their hero for a few months until he does something to piss my mother off.  Thankfully, he didn’t call me this time.  Last time I asked him how many more times we’ll have to save them financially if we give them the money for their mortgage and he said, “As many times as it takes”.  I am not of the same mind.  But, it’s easy for him to say from the other side of the country with nobody but himself to take care of.  I don’t know what to say to my dad anymore.  Lisa said he should be ashamed of himself…and he probably is.  He’s just not ashamed enough to refrain from asking his children for another bailout…and too prideful to get public assistance.  When I talked to him last, he was complaining about his financial situation, yet he was on his way to Whole Foods to buy my mother something.  If times are that desperate, I can’t believe they are going to one of the most expensive grocery stores for food.  I can’t respect that.  I don’t want to hurt him, but I just can’t condone what he is doing…and it hurts ME that he put me in this position.  I love him, but it’s high time he grows up and starts taking responsibility for himself.

 

Goings On

It’s been such a crazy year.   I don’t even know how one would classify it with all the good and bad mixed together.  I’ve been away from the office for two weeks and am not even remotely looking forward to going back.  St.Thomas was absolutely beautiful as always and I cannot believe how well everything went.  It always feels like home when I am there and now I feel like part of the family, too.  Taking care of Gogone scared the shit out of me for the weeks leading up to the trip.  The first few days of learning the routine didn’t help in the least, but I took good notes and I feel like another part of me took over when I was finally on my own.  Not one hour after my Fruitpie and her parents had left for the airport, the water went out.  I was afraid that it was a bad omen at first.  My girl called me from the plane as they were waiting to take off and walked be through switching to the cistern.  In retrospect, it was probably a sign that I could handle anything.  Not that the water going out was catastrophic, but even small emergencies feel huge when you’re on your own.  Gogone took to me almost immediately, it seemed.  She reminded me so much of my own grandma…minus the French, of course.  As the days went on, I began to anticipate her needs and even though I didn’t understand her French, I somehow understood what it was she wanted.  By the time everyone came back from Miami with the great news of MIL’s lack of a tumor, I didn’t want to leave.  I haven’t worked so hard in I don’t know how long, but it is so fulfilling when it’s family.  I wish I had gotten a chance to say goodbye to Uncle Ralphie, whom I had made plates of food for every day and insisted that I ‘take a rest’ every afternoon as we waited for my sisters -in-law to come home.  I usually sat down for an hour and fell asleep for half of it.  In the early morning hours, I dreamt of Gogone blowing her whistle for me and it always got me up before the alarm.  Our little nephews kept me on my toes most of the time.  Jacob is the happiest baby I have ever seen.  There is always a smile on his face.  His was the first diaper I ever changed…and apparently it was an even bigger deal that he had pooped.  He just started eating semi-solids.  Dillon was an absolute handful at seven years old.  When he wasn’t being mischevous, he always wanted to help.  I usually obliged even though it doubled my work.

Leaving was tearful as always, but I felt the emotions even more strongly.  Gogone was crying, and I had the hardest time leaving her room that last time.  At the airport, MIL hugged me and said that she loves me and I was absolutely blown away.  They watched us until we got to the customs desk.  I wish I was still there to help.  I wish we could move this entire house to the island and live there.  Hopefully it won’t be long now…once we have a child if we are so blessed…and maybe if the houseing market turns around.  We’ll sell as much as we can and move the rest.  It’s good to be home with the kids, but I feel like St.Thomas is where we all belong.  It won’t be easy, I know, but nothing worth doing is ever easy.  At least, that’s my experience.

Now I have to switch gears to work again.  I’ve never been very good at picking up where I left off.

 

Ugh

I woke up at a quarter to five with horrendous cramps.  I don’t know why I woke up exactly, but I certainly coudln’t get back to sleep.  I am seriously hating my body right now.  I’ve been on goddamn birth control pills for five months now and I’ve bled practically non-stop.  The doctor switched me to different ones after I stuck out the magical three month number and then some on the last one with no improvement.  I’m on month one of my new ones and I feel like I’ve been on day one of my period for a week.  It just keeps getting worse and worse and I am seriously tired of calling to complain.  I feel like they think I’m a hypochondriac or something.  Maybe that’s the problem with having a male doctor.  I bet if men bled from their peni on a monthly basis, they’d NEVER tolerate this kind of discomfort.  Fucking hormones, man.  Why do I even have a goddamn reproductive system if it doesn’t work?  Couldn’t nature have just said from the beginning, “You aren’t supposed to procreate” and spare me the pain of defective organs?  Sometimes I feel like I’m ready to just bank my eggs and have them take it all out…but even that isn’t a guarantee.  I’d have to be on hormone replacement therapy until my natural menopause and there’s STILL a chance of endometrial cells wreaking havoc.  It’s infuriating.

I’m nervous about feeling so shitty before I go on the trip.  If I’m going to take proper care of an elderly woman, I can’t be in pain myself.  It’s just not an option.  I’m so mad at the universe.  I hate having a ‘why me’ attitude, but I can’t help but wonder what it is I did to so displease God…or whatever the universe really is.  It’s not even just, ‘why me’…Why anyone?  Why does anyone have to suffer like this?  Shouldn’t the inability to create life be punishment enough?  Is it really necessary to have to be popping pills like crazy to have a normal day?  Do I really have to plan my day around the safe limit and efficacy time of NSAIDs?  Is it really necessary to worry about how many continuous days I can wear tampons before it’s bad for my body?

I really don’t mean to be having a pity party, but I just need to get it out of my system, I guess.  I made an appointment with an endo specialist in September and I really hope he can help.  I have a ton of work to do at the office before the trip, too.  There’s a staff meeting today, so I’m definitely going to lose an  hour to bullshit morale boosting and cock stroking.  I have GOT to get myself into a better frame of mind.

 

Stream of Consciousness

It’s been a crazy couple of months.  I’m convinced that the work/life happiness ratio will always be a heavily tipped scale in one direction or another.  There has been so much drama in my house since the kid moved here, and my claws always come out when I see my Fruitpie being hurt repeatedly.  That kid creates drama like tomorrow will never come…and at 22, you would really think that she’d be putting on her big girl panties rather than hopping from relative to relative in a ploy for sympathy and free rent.  I know that I was annoying and self destructive when I was younger, but I also knew that I wanted better for myself and constantly strove for it.  I know that she is not me, but the Cancerian temperament is alive and well in both of us.  I guess the big difference is that I strongly desired to take care of myself and rely on nobody.  As it stands now, I think she’s going to live with yet another relative at the end of August because she can’t stand our rules.  On a provisional license, telling her to drive to work and school only is the law, not a stupid rule devised by us to make her life miserable.  She’s just too immature to see that.

We’re leaving for the island in a week to take care of the family.  My Fruitpie is taking her mom to Miami for the surgery and I am staying to take care of her Gogone.  I am a little nervous because I really do want to do a good job.  I just need to jump in and break through my inhibitions.  I am most worried about the language barrier, and I hope that everything else will come back to me from when I took care of my grandma so many years ago.  It’s hard to believe she’s been gone for sixteen years.  I will worry about my furkids, too…and really need to research ways of keeping mosquitoes from eating me alive.

 

June

I can’t believe the year is half over.  2009 has been really shitty thus far.  Our little Mable has been gone a month, my Tucker is going to have his amputation soon and work is just plain shit on a stick.  I guess it could always be worse, but I could definitely go for some good things coming our way.  We took Tuck to an oncologist on Saturday so I could get an informed opinion.  I think we both knew that amputation was still the best option, but I needed to have all of the information I could before making such a life altering decision for my boy.  The little man was an absolute hit at the vet.  During his exam, he was lying on his side and kneading at the air…purring the whole time, despite meowing his disdain at having his abdomen probed.  The doc loved him.  He gave us our options along with several pamphlets of information on VAS, radiation therapy, amputation, chemo and holistic remedies.  He had initially said that the radiation treatment would last three weeks.  Tuck would have to go to San Diego every day for his treatment.  They offer transportation or boarding…he’d be able to come home on the weekends if we chose the latter.  It seemed that he was leaning toward amputation even though he could not give us his opinion one way or the other.  The prognosis – best case – for radiation therapy is 1000 days…roughly three years.  If he weren’t so young, that might be a good prognosis.  Once the doc left, we discussed our impressions on the whole thing and decided that we’d still amputate.  The vet assistant came in shortly thereafter.  Mr.T walked right up to the corner of the table closest to her and did his ‘touch my nose’ pose.  He immediately gave her kisses and proceeded to roll on his back for some belly rubs.  I swear my boy thinks he’s a dog.  Even though she was allergic to cats, she scooped him up to show him off to some cat lovers in the back because he is just so fucking cute.  He has the best personality.  The quote she gave us for radiation was for four weeks of treatment instead of the three that the doc had initially mentioned.  The cost would be between six and eight thousand dollars.  Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t do that.  It was probably a needless hundred dollars to spend to come out with the same decision we went in with, but it made me feel better ultimately that I am making the right choice.

We stopped by my work on the way from the vet and let him wander around outside on his leash.  It was cold and windy, but he still seemed to enjoy it.  I resolved to take him out more often…even if it’s just for a ride in the car.  It has been far too long since I’ve taken him everywhere with me.  He still loves his car rides and socialization activities.  I should be spoiling him every chance I get.  I love him so very much.

My parents came over in the afternoon and I promptly drank way too much beer.  I didn’t notice it creeping up on me until I stood up after my eighth or so.  The visit was mostly pleasant, but toward the end the conversation took a turn.  Bessie had consumed an entire bottle of white zin herself and started bringing up my teenage years…her version.  Ugh.  My sabres started to come out, and my dad told her to go to the bathroom because they were going to head home.  It was probably for the best.  I’ve accepted the past for what it is, but I would much rather not talk about it…especially when she starts giving me her rendition in which SHE was the victim of MY cruelty.  I know the truth and that is not it.  Once they left, I fell asleep on the couch and only awakened to use the facilities and go up to bed.  The worst part was that I was still obligated to call them yesterday and ended up on the phone with them for forty minutes as they made drunken conversation at the speaker phone.  That woman complains that she can’t eat most things because of her sensitive stomach, yet she can put away a disgusting concoction of tequila, rum, countreau, lemon juice and simple syrup.  My stomach churns just thinking about it.

 

Decisions

It’s been such a difficult month.  My Mable has been gone for two weeks today…and it’s been almost that long since my sweet little boy had his cancerous tumor removed.  He’s back to his old self again, but the heaviness in my heart has not dissipated in the least.  I finally got to speak with the vet who is familiar with his case yesterday evening.  Fruit Cocktail just wasn’t able to give me all the information I needed to know, and my suspicions of the worst were pretty much confirmed.  The margins of the sample removed were dirty.  My boy still has cancerous cells in his leg.  The doctor tried to give me hope…saying that lots of cats can have dirty margins and never have a recurrence.  But, I’ve seen the statistics online.  I know that there are usually worst case scenarios on the internet, but my sources are veterinary sites.  I want to believe that we’ll have a miracle, but I need to prepare myself for the worst.  The statistics for cats with VAS and dirty margins are up to 16 months.  I could lose my boy before his tenth birthday.  The reality of that tortures me.  We could get radiation, but the expense is astronomical.  We could give him more surgery or amputate his leg, but the decision is excruciating.  The vet assures me that a three legged cat is a normal cat…that they don’t even know they’re missing something.  He’s a resilient boy…a tough boy…and I’m sure he’d cope just fine.  But, how do I decide to remove my baby’s limb?  How do I make that decision for him?  All this is still premature.  I need to see the results of X-Rays.  I need to know that it isn’t one of the rarer sarcomas that has spread to his lungs or lymph nodes.  If it has, there is absolutely nothing I can do…short of chemo therapy that will make him sick and miserable.  I don’t want to make him suffer…especially if the results would only prolong his suffering.

He has been happy and playful the last week.  He has been purring and nuzzling like the sweet boy he’s always been.  When he wants attention, no matter what, I give it to him…and I curse myself for all the times I’ve pushed him away because I was busy or not in the mood.  But, there’s nothing I can do about that…and he knows that I love him.  I’ve loved him from the moment he grabbed the back of my coat from his cage.  He was such a sweet little kitten.  We grew up together.  He’s my best friend.  He’s sweet and neurotic…playful and affectionate.  In the last few years, he’s become a little lapcat.  But, he still hasn’t lost his quirkiness.  He’s the best cat anyone could ever wish for and the thought of losing him so soon…so young…just kills me.  I know he’s technically a senior cat, but eight years old is still so young to me.  He should live at least another eight.

I need to stop obsessing over the things I still have no control over.  I just can’t help but feel the impending doom of news I have yet to hear.

 

Dreamland

I have been having the weirdest dreams lately.  I know I usually do, but I think they’re weirder than normal.  On Friday, I had a bizarre dream involving my ex.  On Saturday, I had a dream about my grandma and papo.  Last night, I had this doozy…

I went to San Francisco for a few days to visit friends, apparently. I was wandering around a large park. It was separated in two halves by a highway, but there was a walkway in between them. Strange things were happening in the first half, but all I remember upon waking is a bunch of people in the parking lot. There was one area where everyone was throwing up from being drunk and/or high. There were also a lot of people on motor cycles revving their engines. It was night.

–I was suddenly in the car with my dad. We were leaving a fast food drive through, and he started driving through the park. We drove past the vomiting people through trees and such. He turned the lights off and started driving through the larger park at high speeds. I was worried that we’d hit a tree, but we did not. We ended up back by the vomiting people where we parked and I got out of the car. I ran into Natalia Reagan with her boyfriend and we started talking. It came up that we’d known each other since I was nine, but we kept thinking I was seven. My dad kept trying to shush me because he didn’t want me saying how young I was for some reason.

–I was suddenly at the Sandpiper Hotel in San Francisco. It looked more like Oxnard. I left my hotel and went walking toward Market street…across a freeway. I wandered by the highway for a while and ran into Katherine Boyd. She swore me to secrecy and told me that she had joined a sect of The Illuminati called “Keepers of the Shadows” and they primarily read dark poetry and other books.

–I became her and was taking my mom and young sister to the secret headquarters of the organization. I wanted to read them a poem I loved. When we got in, we walked through winding, dark corridors and I read to them. We were making our way out when someone in ceremonial robes climbed out of a trapdoor in the floor and turquoise slime started oozing out of their mouths, eventually enveloping their bodies until they were just a puddle of the slime. My sister screamed, and it was suddenly known that this happened in pairs and this person’s pair had the same thing happen. We started running out as more and more people were turning into turquoise slime puddles. On our way out of the main corridor, more people were dying from bright yellow-orange slime deaths. They were lesser members of the sect…one of whom was my high school Lit teacher, Ms.Burman. We got out to Market Street and my mother started yelling at me for the excursion and ensuing events. Her last statement was that she’d prefer if I liked shopping at Pier One over Cost Plus. We got into a huge argument about which was better….I was in favor of the latter…and suddenly I was IN a Cost Plus. I was joking with the cashiers about how we had a 20% discount, but couldn’t afford to buy anything with the wages they paid.

–I was me again, walking on Market Street. I talked to a few strangers and wandered into a bar and grill type place. I spotted an old friend of mine – Peter – and hoped he didn’t recognize me when he called me over to his booth. There were a few other of my high school friends there and I had a couple beers. Another friend of mine from work (don’t know who) sat at the booth in front of us. I got up to sit and talk to her for a while. My third beer never came, and Peter left. I felt badly because I didn’t give him money for my two beers. I decided I would give him a message on Facebook. Then, my friend went to the bathroom and never came back. Another work friend from my last job came to talk to me. She said someone I apparently used to know from that job would love for me to join them for dinner but that SHE didn’t want me to come. I spotted Peter across the room and went over to him to give him some money. He wanted $25 for my two beers and I reluctantly gave it to him.

–I was in New Jersey…apparently moving there to be closer to my relatives. My mother was angry with me for living on the east coast because she would ‘never see’ me. I told her that she hardly ever sees me as it is and that I’m over California’s weather…I wanted to be somewhere cold where it snows.

I don’t know what’s going on with my head lately.  I guess all this stress from work and the kids is getting to me.  I’ve started dream journaling again to maybe make some sense of it…if there is any sense to be made.  I wish I could attribute it to drugs or something, but this is just pure me…pure nonsense.

I really don’t want to go to work today.  I think it’s going to be a horrendous one.  I also have to take Tuck to the vet in a little bit for a checkup after he was so sick a few days ago.  Thankfully, he is doing SO much better.  I love my little guy so much.  I only hope we got his cancer in time.

 

Sweet Hound Dog

I miss you so much.

I miss the cute things you always did.
I miss the thump of your tail…you wagged it so much.
I miss the little woofs you’d make when you were dreaming…and wondering what you were dreaming of.
I miss the sound of your nails running across the floor whenever you heard the pantry door open.
I miss giving you good morning treats.
I miss the deep, explosive bark you’d let out when you were excited.
I miss the noises you’d make when you were rolling around on your back.
I miss the way you played with things…throwing them in the air and chasing them.
I miss your hippity-hops.

I miss the bad things you did.
I miss how you would eat something you knew you shouldn’t, and eat even faster when we tried to take it from you.
I miss desperately trying to get you to go outside to potty before bed.
I miss having to bribe you upstairs with a treat every night.
I miss having to hide the trash so you wouldn’t get into it.
I miss giving you a hard time for peeing on the concrete instead of walking a few more feet to the grass.
I miss how you would get most of your body on the grass and still hit the concrete.
I miss having to chase you when you were hot on a scent.

I miss the sweet way you had about you.
I miss those expressive brown eyes that melted our hearts.
I miss those big, floppy ears and how you’d perk them up when you heard something.
I miss that whip of a tail.
I miss those cute little cankles.
I miss your big paws.
I miss how you would come up to us to ask for love.
I miss your random kisses.
I miss putting my foot down to get up from the couch and landing on your enormous tummy.
I miss your enormous tummy.

I could go on for hours, sweet hound dog.

I miss you so very much.