Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Introspection sucks

Occasionally, I feel myself falling into a deep introspection. It's usually some sort of identity crisis. Who am I? What do I want out of life? These questions usually go unanswered until something new triggers my attention. I am in one of these modes.
I used to chalk it up to being Gemini. Ok, I want to be like a 50s housewife and wear pearls and heels to vaccum, but I also want to wear Margaritaville T-shirts and flip flops. I don't want to work, but I also want to be a world-famous, household name author. It's like for every thought and idea I have, my brain retaliates and sends me back the complete opposite just to screw with me.
What I think I'm afraid of is being all of these things. I have a fear of success. I'm afraid of losing - death, separation, moving, etc. (Man, a psychologist could have a heyday with my melon). I'm so afraid of failure that I never start or approach anything. I don't know why.
I've gone through a lot of loss in my life, and it may sound stupid to some, but to me, the loss of my dog Bessie affected me profoundly, even to this day.
Bessie was our first dog. We got her the day after we moved into our first home on Fort Benning. She was a two-month old black Lab mix. She was smart from the get-go. One morning Adam left for work, and by the time he came home, I had trained Bessie in all things necessary for a dog to know, through the use of mini marshmallows. Bessie was special. She was our daughter.
The thought of Bessie dying was not something I ever thought about. Maybe I was protecting myself. The day I took her to the vet and was told she had cancer was one of the most horrific of my life. Making the decision whether to go into the "death room" as I call it was excruciating. But I went. I was able to tell her what a wonderful dog she was and how we loved her (Adam was in Iraq at the time, luckily my BFF Ely was in town visiting-I would not have made it through this without her) and how we would be looking forward to seeing her again in heaven, and she better be right there when we passed through those gates.
I held her as the veterinarian (the canine Jack Kevorkian) gave her the shot. I stroked her head and then realized she was gone. I started sobbing uncontrollably (as I'm about to do now and I would but the landscapers are right outside the window and might wonder why the white girl is crying) and Ely grabbed me and we left fast as lightning. Bessie was gone, but her spirit lives on. We have her ashes in a wooden box that Addison and I painted and put a wooden cutout of a black dog on with her name and a little angel next to it. We have many 8x10 pictures of her around the house. We are still blessed with her son, Brewster, who will be hitting 11 years old on July 13. We have Baby, the 3-year-old, 12-pounds of trouble Silky Terrier.
Okay, I know I did not start off this entry talking about Bessie, but my writing style is just that-I start on one topic and end up writing about something totally different.
No matter. It felt good to talk about Bessie. I am still haunted by that day. Lord knows I've cried a million tears for her. I know she wouldn't want me to be sad, but I am. I miss her. I miss her snuggling up to me when I'm upset (right now she would be sitting right next to me, looking at me with her big liquid brown eyes compassionately).
Okay, okay, enough, I know.
I miss you Bessie.

1 comment:

Jen Curtis said...

Dude! You're killing me here.

Seriously, it's amazing how profoundly an animal can affect us. I think everyone knows how tough losing a pet can be, and maybe at some level we have a Bessie...that memory that we're afraid to even talk about.

You're brave!

Love ya