The Humping Biting Pooping Wonder

     Yesterday morning, after hitting the snooze button multiple times, I rolled out of bed, stretched, and shoved my feet into my flip flops. Time for junior high carpool. I ran a brush through my hair and scrubbed my teeth. As I was exiting the bathroom I happened to glance down and realized I wasn't wearing any pants, not even the pajama kind. Well that just will not fly in a car full of teenagers. Later that morning I picked up the cordless phone to make a call and for the life of me, could not figure out how I was supposed to text on this monstrous, foreign-looking object. Duh.
     There was a reason for my dementia. It's called grief.
     I couldn't write about this on the first day of my blog because it was too close to the surface. It's still painful but I'll grit my teeth and muster my courage and give it a shot.
     Black Jack.
     No, not the game, my dog. My wonderful, dorky, pubic-haired Schnoodle. Sunday was his last day with us. About ten o'clock that night he went to his new home. I'd like to say I handled it well, crying just enough to look beautiful in my sorrow, but I'm a terrible liar. The entire hour prior to his departure, I cradled him in my arms while sobbing into his curls. He licked the salty tears and snot off my face, enjoying the treat, not understanding one whit what was about to take place. That made me bawl even harder. By the time his new owner arrived, I was a blubbering, red-faced, swollen, snotty mess. I couldn't pull myself together. It didn't matter that his new owner was my best friend who just lived down the street, all I knew was that my feet were going to freeze at night without my fur blanket to keep them warm.
     Black Jack's leaving was a long time in coming. I knew back in May that he would have to go. On May twelfth--Mother's Day--Ian was hospitalized for a massive asthma attack. Following this trauma, I took Ian to see his asthma/allergy doc.
     "Do you still have the dog?" the doctor asked.
     "Yes," I admitted sheepishly. "But this one is hypoallergenic and Ian seems to be fine..."
     Dr. Gourley was shaking his head. "He's not fine. There is no such thing as a hypoallergenic dog to an asthmatic."
     I love dogs. I grew up with them. Poodles, Huskies, Collies, mutts and strays. Love them, love them, love them. My first dog after I got married was Tank. He was a Pomeranian who worshipped my husband and pretty much hated everyone else. After his demise Scott surprised me with a beautiful American Bulldog. Tinkerbell. Every so often in life an animal comes along that is different than other animals. There is something special and unique that draws you to this creature. Tinkerbell was such a dog. She had a magnetic soul. She was only with us for two months. Ian's allergies were so bad around her that he would break out in hives all over his body. When she left us I layed in bed for three days, unable and unwilling to function. After my three days of mourning I refused to wear anything but black for the entire week. I am going to admit something now that I am not proud of. It's something I have a lot of guilt about.
     I resented and blamed Ian for my loss. He was the reason for my sorrow. If it weren't for him, my precious dog could have stayed. How shallow is that? When I realized that Black Jack would have to go, I told myself it would be different this time. Ian didn't ask for asthma or allergies. It's not his fault. He loves dogs every bit as much as I do. What it is is one of life's injustices. It just happened. The night Black Jack left I knew it was time to stop looking at my losses and start counting my blessings instead. I have many blessings. The best ones are my children. Tawni, Rebeka, Zackary, and  Ian. No pet is better than them. So with eyes that tear up occasionally--but remain clear--I am choosing to look for the good, and I'm finding it. Although my feet are cold.