What repeatedly surprises me is how much can happen in a single day--the range of emotions, actions, failures, or accomplishments we're capable of experiencing within 24 hours. We spend our lives making checklists and scheduling appointments, filling the time, giving ourselves meaning. And then the night comes. We sleep, either exhausted from the day's length or anxious for the one to come. autopilot.We call this living.
My dog, Scooby, died yesterday. Simply put, he was one of my favorite things in the whole wide world. Yesterday, I turned autopilot off. He was worth the change.
I write about it now, perhaps to honor him in revealing that his death took me off my schedule, away from my appointments, past my checklist and into that range of emotions we're capable of experiencing in that one single day--into anger, sadness, joy, annoyance, hope, despair, peace. I honor him, perhaps to elevate him in revealing that his death took precedence over my "living." He was worth the tardiness to class.
What gets me, always, is the silence that follows death. It's the hollow stillness that whispers "not all is well--something's amiss." Figuring it out is just around the corner, unreachable. The game leaves you exhausted. You never wanted to play in the first place.
So I say goodbye for now, Scooby, you nut. Try not to eat all the grass in heaven and don't think your fur will fool anyone into mistaking you for the Lamb of God. You were one hell of a companion these past sixteen years.
Man, how I miss you already.