Off to a slow start this morning. I woke at 3, then 5, then 7:30 but lay back to try to follow a lost thread of dreaming. All gone now.
Finally ready to empty and wash the dog bowls, actually two mixing bowls. Sadie's been gone ten days and I don't foresee another dog for a while. I realize that dogs came into my home with Randy, and left the same way: we adopted the original Sadie on a rainy September day in Houston. I'd taken R to the SPCA shelter by surprise, hoping he might meet a dog to replace his lost Emily. And the second Sadie, Sadie 2.0, came to us here in Lewisburg from a family that couldn't keep her any longer, came to us with problems and health issues we battled from nearly day one, but we gave her the best life we could.
I'd never been a dog person before our first Sadie, always considering them either too yippy or too loud, too unpredictably so, which shows how unobservant I had been of others' interactions with their dogs. I'm thinking of my friend Ben and his sweet little Tam-Tam, whose soft white fuzz always reminded me of late portraits of May Sarton. Or of Charlie, who delightedly posted snapshots of Arden on FB. My parents had problematic but devoted dogs. My sister J's interactions with Angus and Sascha, her work with the local humane society, and her very good portraits of dogs helped me to realize how lucky I was to gain entrance to this fellowship, to have the opportunity to build a relationship with a good dog. And my sister S, whose heart is larger than any house, has given homes to some of the most loving dogs (and many cats) I've ever met.
With so much uncertainty about what's next for me--with everything suddenly wide open, which induces no small amount of middle-aged terror--I don't see how a dog could fit into my life right now. Though I'm warming to the notion of Molly and Ivan, my imaginary goldfish.
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