This here is what happens when I leave my yarn out.

And this is her ‘I know I’m guilty, please don’t be mad’ face.

It’s been a rough month. I’m not exactly sure where to begin–my little Luna has passed away. Also, a week after, my computer crashed and I lost all of my most recent photographs of her. They were the only thing I DIDN’T back up on my external. This Christmas Card is the last image I have of her.

The details of her passing, I still do not want to delve into.  The story itself maybe I’ll be able to talk about at a later date, but for now I just want to remember. Remember my sweet puppy who used to curl up under the covers because she would get cold at night. My dog who would lick the air compulsively if you ate something in front of her. My dog whose aim was always perfect and would always knock people in their most sensitive areas (men particularly). My dog who loved to lay out on my balcony and who when I’d sit out there with her, liked to sit in my lap to have a better view of the streets. The way she would charge the door whenever I came home and jump on me with such enthusiasm that you thought she hadn’t seen me in months.

The day she passed away, I had gotten a bad cut (um, from Luna’s teeth) on my finger. It was so deep that I was (later) told it should have had a couple of stitches. If you peeled the skin apart, you could see my bone beneath. And that first day, I just kept looking at the open wound on my finger, crying. It hurt so badly. It was bleeding, oozing. The pain was so intense that my whole finger throbbed with each beat of my heart. But each day, that finger of mine would heal just a little more. And each day, I cried just a little less. And then a couple of days ago, I looked down at my finger and noticed that it had healed. While I was out living my life–the wound had healed. There’s still a scar, of course. A mark. And there will probably always be a scar–just like there’s still that lump in my throat as I write this.

And every now and then I’ll find one of her old toys hidden somewhere (she liked to hide and bury her toys). I found her collar the other day (which she also liked to hide) and I sat down on my couch clutching it to my chest and let myself mourn her all over again.

I hate that dogs do this to me. I hate that I give my heart to every single one, just to have it crushed over and over. They give so much back in return as well, of course. And I just have to keep telling myself that Luna and I had a great, though short-lived, life. I loved her and I believe that she loved me, too. You know…in the way that a dog CAN love, that is.

And I’m sure that up there in Heaven, Luna is doing all her favorite things. Chewing a bully stick, hiding all her toys, digging enormous holes, rolling around in mud puddles and chasing (ehem, attacking) squirrels.