One More Day, One More Time

...one more sunset, maybe I'd be satisfied. But then again, I know what it would do. It'd leave me wishing still...

I wish I had a happier update. As I write this, I'm listening to an absolutely beautiful thunderstorm, and I wish every time the thunder rolled and my heart leapt with appreciation, that joy wasn't hampered by the realization that Chance isn't here to be afraid of storms anymore.

For a lot of people, I know a pet is just a pet. They're practically a dime a dozen, and you can always just get a new one. But that's not how it is for me. From my very earliest pet, I vividly remember a string of animals that held valued places in my life, loyal friends who showed up with their whole hearts. Major was my first dog - a giant Rottweiler who gently submitted himself to role of napping pillow for a rowdy and energetic toddler. Cosmo was a sweet Tabby kitten found on the side of a highway. Reba was another Rottweiler, and in the absence of a tail, she wagged with her entire body. Bear was a Maltese, and his personality was about 80 times his size. He would get the zoomies and race through the house like his tail was on fire, then drop like a rock and pant for breath with the biggest grin on his face. Dion...well, she was something else entirely. She once jumped through a glass window, took a jaunt through the neighborhood, and then showed up at home completely uninjured as if nothing had happened. Samson was loyal and quiet and sweet.

But Chance...

Chance was fourteen years of loyal service - literally. His entry into our household was part desire to give my children the joy of a pet, part recovery after losing Samson to epilepsy, and part therapy. My oldest had horrifying, completely irrational anxieties, and as she was already beginning the journey with ADHD medications, I didn't want to add more pills to her life. Chance was her anxiety medication; he was the bark alarm that eased her fear of break-ins and boogeymen, the promise of safety and rescue in the event of the tidal wave she constantly feared (Yes, even in East Tennessee. Irrational fear is real, too, especially when you're young.)

When I was diagnosed with Complex PTSD, he trained and then acted as a service dog, attending therapy appointments with me every week for years. He went to stores, rode in elevators, slept in hotel rooms, took road trips. He was there at home to comfort my youngest daughter after 12 of her 13 surgeries. He smiled on car rides, and cried with uncontainable joy every time we went to a drive through. He loved grilled chicken nuggets from Chick-fil-a, pup cups from Starbucks, apple slices from McDonald's.

He was terrified of fireworks. And storms. And running water of any kind.

He thought every human he encountered was a friend, he loved playing hide-and-seek, and he learned my children by name.

He spent fourteen years giving everything he had to my family.

We live in an apartment with two floors. I'm disabled and I struggle with the stairs, especially at the end of the day - and he knew. He would walk up the stairs with me, offering balance.

Over the last year, we changed places, and as hard as the stairs were for me, they got harder for him. Instead of him walking up with me, I walked up with him. But he was slowing down, and as he lost interest in food, I cooked for him to keep him going. I held his bowl and talked to him to keep him company as he ate. Last weekend that stopped being enough. He stopped eating, and his tired eyes told me he was finished.

Monday, the girls and I (and a very generous friend) took him to the vet for the last time. I cried in the front seat as he grinned in the back seat, happy to be on a last car ride with a belly full of hot dog. We got there early for our appointment, and I let him follow his hound's nose all over the beautifully landscaped yard outside. It took about five minutes for him to start showing fatigue, and we went inside.

And it was all so peaceful. He laid in my lap, and I petted the velvet of his floppy ears. I held my hand over his heart, felt it beating. Felt it trip right after the injection, then start up again, strong as always. Then it slowed, slowed...stopped. And my best friend was gone.

I know it was the right thing to do. I know it was time. I know he was ready.

None of that makes it better. So here we are.

I don't know how or when I'll find a new writing rhythm in the quiet he left behind. He's been with me for every one of my books...but I have been a writer since I was a child, and I am still a writer now. This week was tough and my routines were all devastated - I set up my planner for the week, same as always (although, a bit later than usual if I'm being honest), I did my grocery shopping, I cleaned my house, I washed my hair, I held my daughter as she cried.

And I wrote. One of my goals in revamping and renewing my books has always been to add to my poetry collection, double its content, and republish it as a second edition (if you're wondering, it's the one at the very bottom of my publishing schedule in the sidebar) - so I used my emotions this week to work on that.

I did move forward with STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM too, though the progress is more delayed than I'd like it to be. Thankfully, moments like the ones we saw this week are why I have so much space built into my publishing schedule - so that I can be graceful with myself and still as dependable as possible for you.

I am trying to get back on schedule, but if we're going to have new chapters to celebrate next week, I'd better get to it. In the meantime, friends...

*song lyric from "One More Day," Diamond Rio