Happy Valentine's Day! From Wonderland Burlesque

Happy Valentine's Day!

From Wonderland Burlesque

Yes, it's February 14th (already!)

My how time flies.

Any special plans today? Let me know. I'd love to learn what makes this day special to you.

I will keep it low key. I adore the day, but have long given up trying to celebrate it in a big way. It is an opportunity to reach out and let those you love know how much you really care about them.

Take the time to do that, my friends.

Time is fleeting.

In the blink of an eye...

Wishing you all a very Happy Valentines' Day.

Celebrate in your own way.

Savor the moment.

- uptonking from Wonderland Burlesque

Cupid / I've Loved You For A Long Time - The Spinners

Stupid Cupid - Connie Francis

Two New Keys

There are two new keys on my key ring.  One is all multi-colored dots, like a clown suit, and the other is black with a small red heart on it and the word ‘home’. 

I guess he likes me.

Me: who, in a fit of technological-induced frustration hurls a tin of soup into my shopping cart in the self-check-out lane at the grocery store; all of which he witnesses.  But instead of reprimanding me and making me feel worse, he remains (wisely) silent until we get out to the car, where he chides me in a way that makes me laugh at myself.  He can do this, because he gets me. We have the same temperament and he understands all too well what it means to be horribly frustrated and feel thwarted by life.

Me: who shuts down emotionally at one point during a marathon board game night (seven hours!) when one of the other players suggests, none too subtly, that my sense of humor lacks even the tiniest degree of sophistication.  Up until that point, I had been having a grand time, talking rather boisterously and chuckling up a storm.  It has been awhile since anyone put ‘baby in the corner’, and it didn’t sit well with me.  At one point I go to the bathroom and he follows, making sure I’m okay.  He does this because he cares that I have a good time.  He makes excuses for the other player’s behavior and, of course, he’s right.    But he doesn’t chastise me for pouting, because he knows the value of a good pout.

Me: who snarls loudly at other drivers who make what I see as ‘stupid’ mistakes while navigating our city’s badly plowed streets and roads, swearing like a sailor, sparing no one. Rather than chastise me, he, who has never really driven a car and has no license, does the same and in just as caustic a manner.  This causes me to frequently and gleefully point out exactly how silly it is for me to engage in this kind of contained road rage, as we both disparage the city of its inability to keep our streets clear of snow and bemoan how awful and trying this year’s winter has been.  He does this because he, too, knows all too well the frustration that comes moving through traffic at this time of year – but he does so on a bicycle! (I kid you not.)

Yep.  He gets me.

And he keeps ‘getting’ me.  He's found the key; the one that gets me to lower my guard and let someone 'in'.  And he's found that other key; the one that unlocks my 'happy'.  

Every weekend is another three or four nights and days of amazingly easy co-existence filled with joy and pleasure.  He’s generous with the kisses and nap time has never been so fun.

We keep growing closer.  We keep being grateful.  He keeps being patient.

We keep: working out together, laughing, getting naked, taking naps, eating out, cooking at home, having cocktails, trying new things, talking about media and art, talking about dogs and cats, working on logistics, playing video and board games, snuggling while watching movies and BBC comedies…

And then, after our Sunday morning work-out, he surprises me by insisting that we stop at the local Menards where he has two keys made: one for the front door of his building and another for his apartment.

And so I have two new rings on my key ring, granting me access to his home.

And, if I’m lucky, and smart, and believe in fate, and trust the universe…

…his heart.

Fingers crossed.  

A Great Thing Badly

I’ve done a great thing badly.

I’d forgotten how all-consuming falling in love can be, like a fire ripping through a house, tearing at the walls, spurred on by an unquenchable thirst for oxygen, consuming all within its grasp.  My recent reliance on casual encounters has left me calloused.  I assumed there were no chinks in my armor, no access to my heart.  Haughty, I took pride in my ability to separate the physical from the emotional. 

And I was pretty damn successful at it… up until 12 days ago. 

Nine months ago, we met on one of those hook-up sites where people pretend to be there for something other than casual sex.  Oh, there are exceptions, and this man was one of them.  He was LTR oriented.  My idea of long term?  Over 20 minutes.  But he had something much more traditional in mind.

I contacted him on a whim, deciding that if he, like so many others, never responded - no big deal.  For me, it’s a numbers game.  You throw out as many lines in the water as possible in the hopes that someone bites. 

We clicked instantly.

He seemed a bit out of my league.  And something about his use of language when he responded indicated that he was intelligent.  His flirtations were witty and ripe with promise of the kind of sexual exploration that appeals to me a great deal; the man was a bit kinky.  And handsome.  To these eyes.

We exchanged emails and continued to feel one another out.  I let it lapse because I got the sense that he really was searching for ‘the one’ – that mythical creature that has eluded me for so many years, the one I had begun to believe simply didn’t exist. 

Summer came and I wanted to be outdoors.  I removed all my on-line hook-up site profiles so I could focus on enjoying the season. 

At the end of summer, out of the blue, he checked in with me via email.  He wanted to know how the BDSM camping thing went.  We wrote back and forth.  Enough time had elapsed that, while I remembered him (I saved all his emails in a folder), I had forgotten that big red flashing light; the one that said ‘Stay Away’.   However, logistics worked against us and nothing came of it.

Fast forward to a month ago.  I’m horny and trying to think of ways to hook- up without resorting to going back on the hook-up sites.  That’s where those folders in my Outlook account come in handy.  I hit up a few fuck buds from the recent past or those that have shown an interest.  This man is one of them.  He’s one of the few who return my email.

He wants to know what changed my mind. 

I really should have paid more attention to that question.  I assumed he meant about getting together again.  But, based on what has transpired, I think he also meant something else. 

So we meet, for coffee.  Another red flag; most people who hook up do not screen their tricks at some anonymous coffee shop.  We end up talking for three hours straight.  And he catches me totally off-guard, because, going in, I have this one-dimensional view of who this person is based on our shared sexual interests, and, unbeknownst to me, it turns out we have a ton of stuff in common.  In fact, he reminds me of me about twenty years ago.   Self-flattery, to be sure, but we truly do have a lot in common.

And then there are things we don’t have in common.  He’s damn hot.  Huge arms.  Broad shoulders.  Small waist.  He’s wearing a very flattering, tight baseball-style black and grey shirt and a pair of dark jeans that leave NOTHING to the imagination.  His buzzed head is super sexy.  I like his smile, his eyes, his cool glasses, his perfect ears.  I find him to be very, very attractive.  I assume he’s 28 years old (and out of my league). 

Ten minutes into the conversation, I start to assume that nothing of a sexual nature is going to happen, so I   relax and enjoy the conversation – which I don’t force – and my latte.  Three hours pass.  It feels like one.  We talk about art, theater, working out, fashion, hipsters, pets, past relationships, our families.  He reads.  He sings tenor.  We both love farms.  We cover so much.

Surprised by the time, I excuse myself, telling him I have to go feed my dogs and get to church.  We stand to go.  He rides his bike everywhere, which helps explain his fantastic legs in those skin tight jeans.  But, of course, it’s not just his legs that look incredible in those jeans.  OMG!  There ought to be a law.   I pay him a compliment and he makes some comment about enjoying my ass as I walk away.  This surprises me, because during the previous three hours sexual attraction was never discussed.    I leave puzzled and try to sort it out on my way to my car. 

What just happened?

And he’s masculine, but there’s nothing put on about it.  I mean, he talks about softer stuff, like fashion, and theater, and music, and his cats (he has two).  And I find myself wondering if I met him in, say, a work situation if I would assume he was straight.  Maybe I’m just being stupid.  And while I would question it, I would assume he was straight. 

Well… not in those jeans.

Almost immediately I start wishing I had met him twenty years ago; before I’d become so bitter and jaded.

There’s an email waiting when I get home.   It contains the word ‘giddy’.  No one I know uses that word, except me, and I know exactly what he means when he does.   He’s very complimentary and he’s definitely attracted to me.  He says it’s all he could do not to kiss me on the spot.

Something about the email nags at me, but we make plans to see each other the following Monday.  However, Sunday morning, at five a.m., I decide to spell things out for him.  After a nice soft intro I get right to the point.

“I wanted to clarify something before we continue.  I am not long term relationship material.  I don't know if you remember that, but it used to be part of my on-line profiles.  I'm more of a fuck bud or friends with benefits these days.  You mentioned that you don't do the one night stand thing.  Well, I don't either... I'm more of a 20 minute-stand-thing guy.  More on that later, if you care to hear.

To be honest, I'm simply too damaged.  We sort of started to touch on that, but, trust me, where I'm coming from, we hardly scratched the surface.  I can actually laugh about most of it now, but if anything, I serve as a cautionary tale and something most people can't deal with.   Happy to talk about that more.  I try to be pretty open about sharing stuff.  And, hell, I could talk to you about almost anything.

I'm also older than you.  So, I know myself pretty well. And, if you care to get to know me, I'm afraid you'll see exactly what I'm talking about, so... maybe you should consider me a bullet you dodged.” 

He writes back and tells me that we should just see where things go and that he won’t be pushing any sort of agenda. That’s enough to get me to lower my guard.

We go out three times.  We make out twice.  He’s an amazing kisser.  I live in awe of his body. 

And I fall hard.  

Really, really hard.  Harder than I ever thought possible. Like back when I was 18 years old.

We’re sharing music and movies and dreams and castles in the sky.

I’m perfect for him.  I can say that with absolute confidence.  And he’s perfect for me.

We make plans to see each other this coming weekend, both Saturday and Sunday.  But something’s not right.  My stomach is in knots all the time.  I hurt.  I start crying for no reason.  Old tapes start playing in the background. I find myself being sucked down into some weird abyss that I vaguely remember from my past. 

I go to bed early, thinking I must be really tired.  And I cry.  Sob.  It’s nuts.  I’m nuts.

So I get up and write an email.

I explain how wonderful I think he is in great detail.  How fucking amazing he is and how he simply blows me away.  Then I explain how damaged I am and how I wouldn’t wish me on anybody.  I don’t want to harm him in any way, but fear I may already have done just that. 

“I wish I had known.  I wish I had trusted the universe enough and waited for you.  But I didn't.  I've come to see that my life is something that I have created by forcing things into being rather than allowing them to evolve naturally.  I thought that is how you build a life.  And I have been wrong.  That is how you hurt people.”

And yes, I’m… I’m full of shit.  I’m a total a-hole.  I’m a jerk. An idiot. 

But that’s long been the case.

I don't know what I will do now.  Stop all this casual sex, I think.  It's taken someone like this wonderful man to make me realize just how selfish, destructive, and pointless all of that is. 

He was perfect for me.  I was perfect for him.  And I know we’ll never see each other again.

Yes, I’ve done a great thing badly.  

Last night I broke someone’s heart…

…mine.

Lost...

This is the sound of the planes in the night
Coming out of the darkness
And into the light
Shining alarmingly
Curiously bright

This is the sound of those murderous drums
The marching of footsteps
The twisting of thumbs

Over and over

Again here it comes

I’m on my way to San Francisco. An opportunity came up to travel with a group of people, some of whom I know quite well, and I decided to go for it. I have no specific plans in San Fran… I just want to go experience it. In spite of the fact that I lived in Cali for a period of time, I never made it to San Fran. I’m excited. I thought it would be the perfect closure to a summer that defied all my expectations.

I really expected to spend most of the summer on the Prairie, getting my brains fucked out, but that was not to be. The summer started out promisingly enough. I managed to get to the Prairie at least four days a week. It was shaping up to be my most social summer ever, with people talking to me like never before. I felt part of a community and while I wasn’t necessarily attracted to all of them, we all seemed to get along well. I thought I was really making friends for the first time in a long time. It wasn’t simply pleasantries that were being exchanged. Copious amounts of information regarding the gay community and what was going on in Minneapolis and Chicago was shared. The conspiracy theories were always my favorites, followed by gossip about any given individual that happened to appear on the radar of the Prairie die-hards. There was also a great deal of speculation as to the motivations of the Parks and Recreation department (or as I liked to call them, Parks and Wrecks) and their plans and maintenance of the Prairie. They mowed it once early in the season and everyone was up in arms about it. Fortunately that was the only time they chose to do that and, last I checked, the Prairie grasses were as high as an elephant’s eye.

For me, everything changed on June 7th, with the death of one of my Chihuahuas, Paco. I wrote about that in an earlier entry, found here: http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/06/hearts-stop.html

His passing shook me in a way that I had not experienced in a long time, if ever. I rarely cried before that date, but since then tears have become an almost daily thing. A month later, I thought I was feeling better, well enough to return to the Prairie. But my return would be short-lived.

Mona, my three and half year old Deer Chihuahua had a genetic abnormality that needed surgical attention. Two weeks later, she had recovered sufficiently and I thought things were about to return to normal, but complications set in. Then she developed a series of severe reactions to the drugs she was taking post surgery, and then complications to the drugs prescribed to counteract the symptoms of the original reactions. Then she lost the use of her back legs.

Spoiler alert: It doesn’t end well.

It all came to a head at 3:00 am, on August 7th – two months to the day since Paco went away. I’m not going into details, but the experience – its tactile elements (the humidity, the stark of night, the silence, the terror) – haunt me to this day. She was only three and a half years old. I felt cheated. She was only in my life for six months. She was the most beautiful dog I have ever seen. The few photos I have of her simply don’t do her justice.

She came into my life at a time when I wasn’t sure I had room in my heart. Paco’s enlarged heart and faulty valve had just been diagnosed and I was hopeful that the drugs prescribed would delay the inevitable and improve his quality of life. Mona came with a lot of emotional baggage. She lived in an apartment and was never allowed to go outside, except to do her business. Her owner had to give her up because there was a three year old in the house who was hell bent on terrorizing the poor dog, to the point where injury to the animal was a distinct possibility. Naturally, she was less than thrilled when she first arrived at my house. She had never been around other dogs before and there was a definite period of adjustment. She was terrified of being outside, and walks were a new experience undertaken with great trepidation. But she did adjust. In fact, she and Paco got along quite well.

Then things began to go badly for Paco, which took a lot of attention and time from Mona.

In the end, it isn’t so much that I feel cheated because I lost her so soon, but I feel horribly guilty for having cheated her out of a great deal of quality time. She deserved more. Her beauty and elegance astounded me. I loved to watch her move and sit. In my mind and soul, she remains this beautiful ghost, an enigma I never got the chance to solve.

In the end… I will never know what exactly went so terribly wrong. It was a series of unfortunate events that seemed to feed on each other to the point of total annihilation. I will never know the true cause of her deteriorating health or if I made the correct decision when I put her down. That guilt kills me. It eats away at me, gnawing on the corners of my psyche. All I want is to have her back. All I want is a second chance. And so, I lapsed into silence, unable to write. Not really living, so much as existing while questioning that existence all the while.

For a brief time, it was just Beau, my 13 year old Chihuahua and I, left to sort through what remained in the wake of our losses. After Mona died, I told myself, no more dogs. Beau and I began to reconnect in a way that we had not been connected since our early years, alone, together. After all the drama of Paco and Mona’s deaths, I felt such relief, although I also felt the house had gotten much too quiet.

And then, along came Millie.

She’s two years old, weighs 4.8 lbs. and is blind. It’s a rescue that one of my sisters has been working on for over a year and a half. The circumstances and events of Millie’s first 2 years are rather horrific, to say the least. My sister was aware of the situation and kept asking if she could have the dog. Finally the owners relented and a week after Mona had died, I got a phone call. The timing sucked, but I couldn’t say no. I’m glad I didn’t.

Considering she is a full-blood Chihuahua and all that she has been through in her short life, Millie is an absolute sweetheart; so loving and sweet. I didn’t realize she was blind until three days after her arrival. I knew something was up, but it took a visit to the vet to confirm my worst fears. Amazingly, her condition seems to have no impact on her enjoyment of life and the people around her. She relies on her heightened senses of smell and hearing to navigate and her memory of spatial configurations is astounding..

I’m glad she’s part of my life. There remains a huge hole in my heart, but Millie now occupies a bit of it.

The night I took Mona to the emergency vet, as we descended into what felt like, not death, but the beginning of a lack of life, an Annie Lennox song came into my head and a month and half later, still has not left…

This is the sound of a baby’s first breath
The dying of foot steps
The touching of flesh
To hold in your memory
To keep by your chest

We’re lost…
And, now… we are found.

Hearts Stop

Paco was a little purebred chocolate Chihuahua. He weighed 9 lbs. He was born on April 14th, 2001 and passed away on June 7th, 2010.

Paco had issues. He was taken away from his mother too soon and probably not treated all that well for the first 4 months of his life. I suspect he got hit a lot. By the time he came into my life he was very timid, terrified of noises, strangers, and human hands. I have pictures from the first day when he came to live with me. All he had was a large pink, stuffed animal named Mr. Bunny and a stuffed toy shaped like a banana. The banana was bigger than he was, or at least it appears so in pictures. Mr. Bunny was much loved. Because Paco had been taken away from his Mother too soon, he had this habit of ‘nursing’ on people’s clothing, especially my white t-shirts. Or Mr. Bunny. He also developed this habit of dragging Mr. Bunny out whenever I had company, proceeding to hump him while nursing on his ears or neck. It was cute, obnoxious and embarrassing… but it made Paco happy. I can’t speak for Mr. Bunny.

Because Mr. Bunny was so beloved, he didn’t last very long. In the nine years of Paco’s life he had three Mr. Bunnies. The last one was actually a pig, but it was made of the right material and the same color as Mr. Bunny I and II, so even though it was a pig his name was Mr. Bunny.

Paco was somewhat house trained when he came to live with me. I couldn’t understand why he kept going down the basement steps and doing his business at the bottom. Then I learned that he had been living in a second floor apartment with steps – so he had been trained to go down the steps and do his business. He was simply doing what he had been taught. They never let him play outside, so my fenced yard was pretty intimidating for him at first, but soon he was barking at everything in sight, racing up and down the length of the fence. Like most dogs, he loved to lie in the sun.

He was easy to train; smart, but stubborn. He could sit and shake hands, stay and lay down. He had a very sharp temper, snarling and snapping, especially when he was tired or if you made the mistake of putting your hand over his head. He would also jump up behind guests and try to nip them on the butt, but mellowed as he grew older. He was a monster, for sure.

But he was my little monster.

I remember taking him to a field near a favorite park and allowing him to run around off-leash. He galloped and raced around like a little madman, so happy. He got excited anytime he got to go for a walk or ride in the car. In the car, for the first half hour of a trip his nose would be pressed up against the glass of the passenger or driver side window, but after that he would curl up in my lap into a tiny ball and snooze.

He had a good appetite and loved treats. He ran to greet the garbage men every Monday and they would give him a big treat. The mailman was a different matter. He hated the mailman and barked the moment he was anywhere near our block – somehow he just sensed him.

For as snappy and nippy as Paco could be with most people, he had this odd knowledge when it came to the frailty of others. A friend of mine suffered a stroke at a rather young age, and whenever he came to visit, Paco was very gentle with him, sitting on his lap while being petted or nuzzling in beside him. He was the same way with my father once Alzheimer’s had robbed him of many of his abilities.

One Sunday last fall, I came home from breakfast and found Paco under the dining room table, terrified and shivering. I tried to coax him to go on a walk or to take a treat. Sensing that something was very wrong, I took him to the emergency vet, who thought maybe he had fallen and strained his hindquarters. Now I recognize that as the day Paco had his first heart attack. By mid-January I knew there was something wrong with Paco. Despite his incredible appetite, he had lost a lot weight and was struggling when we went on walks, frequently stopping and asking to be carried. An ultrasound revealed that he had a torn heart valve and that his heart, having to work overtime, had grown enlarged. I noticed that for every intake of breath one of my other dogs would take, Paco would have to take four. He also had a partially collapsed trachea. He was put on meds and a special diet immediately. He quickly put weight back on, but continued to struggle to breathe and swallow. By early June it was apparent that he was getting much worse. So much so, that he had difficulty finding a comfortable position to sleep and his appetite began to wane.

His muzzle became a lot whiter as he grew older. Because of it people mistakenly thought he was the eldest of my dogs. I think, because his heart beat so fast, he was aging at a much faster rate. Chihuahuas can live to be as old as twenty-two years, so losing Paco after only nine and half feels like a cheat… like we have both been cheated.

I’m haunted by the loss of this dog. I want to see him everywhere. He was such a tiny animal, but he took up so much space in my house. Now the house seems so empty, even with the other two dogs still there.

I don’t have anyone to steal my socks or run off with my slippers. When we go for walks, our pace is slower now – with Paco there was always such urgency. Leaving the house and turning on the alarm is no longer accompanied by the drama of howls and yaps. He was also always the first one to greet me when I came home.

It’s been almost a month and I have finally started to part with some of my t-shirts that Paco chewed holes in. My weekly laundry is about a third of what it used to be, because I no longer have to put on special clothing for him to nurse on. Sitting on the couch, watching television, there’s an empty space on the couch. I miss the security of having him beside me.

His ashes came home a week ago. I put him in the wooden urn I had planned to use for my own ashes. Putting away his dish, his collar, and his leash was hard. I put his favorite stuffed animal, Mr. Bunny, on the pillow in the spare bedroom. It still smells like him.

I keep reliving the last day of his life. I left work in the middle of the day in order to ‘take care of the situation’. Paco was sunning himself on the deck. I gave him a treat. Then, gathering Mr. Bunny and his favorite blanket, we went to the car. A good friend of mine drove me. I rolled down the passenger window so Paco could stick his nose out. He was very happy. Once we got on the highway, he curled into a ball on the blanket in my lap, just like he always did for long car trips. Once at the vets, Paco did not seem nervous at all. He used to dread going, snapping at the vet techs as they would try to clip his nails or examine him. They used to muzzle him, but in the past few months, as vet visits had become something of a norm, Paco relaxed around them and soon there was no need.

We entered through a back entrance and came into a room I had never seen before. I brought Mr. Bunny and his blanket with. The vet was very kind. She warned me, told me what to expect. Letting go of him was hard; physically giving up control, handing him over to the vet tech, allowing him to be placed on the table. And then… things just happened so quickly. I thought there would be more time.

But then, I did, where Paco was concerned. I always thought there would be more time.

The vet gave him a shot in his left paw and down he went. It was like a watching a tiny horse go down, or a balloon silently lose air. His eyes didn’t close and I couldn’t get close enough to him. I wanted to be among the last things he saw on this earth. I kept telling him how much I loved him. Trying to touch him. Did he know it was me? That I was still there? The second shot. His heart stops and he’s gone. No more pain. No more struggle or panic. His eyes still open, I position myself in front of him, unsure… when does he no longer see me? The vet and the vet tech leave. I hold his paw. I feel him. His front and behind are cool to the touch, but his center… I can still feel the warmth of the sun on his back. That heat. He seemed so peaceful sitting on the deck that morning…

I don’t want to leave him there. I don’t want him to be alone. I keep trying to leave the room, but I turn around and I look and I need to touch him again. I need to look in his open eyes… does he see me? Is he gone?

But I have to leave, which means, I have to leave him, lying on that table… alone. I walk out of the room and close the door and look at him through the window in the door. I try to leave, but turn around and look again, and again, and again.

There is some relief on the ride home. And then the doubts creep. Was it too soon? He seemed so happy on the ride there. So happy lying in the sun on the deck. He still had an appetite. Some. For treats. And then, days later, more questions. Where did he go? Where is he? Is he alone? What happened to him… that unique little being who took up so much room in my house?

I had an 8X10 close-up photo I had taken of him the week of his diagnosis. I took a lot of pictures of him that week. I made my friend take me to the dollar store so I could buy a frame for it. I set it in my line of vision, on the floor, right near his bed, for many days. One day my friend comes and places the photo on top of my china cabinet. I wait forever for his ashes. Putting away his dog leash, his bowl, his collar… the tears come. And suddenly, a song that I have always loved, and one that I heard on my iPod at the gym the morning before I took Paco to the vets for the last time takes on a new meaning… the lyrics...

Where the cars go by,
All the day and night,
Why don't you say,
What's so wrong tonight?
Pray for me,
Praying for the light…*

He used to love sitting on the back of one the chairs in my living room, in front of the big bay window and watch the cars go up and down the street.

I worry about my other dogs, Beau and Mona. Do they miss him? Mona didn’t know Paco very long, but they got along really well, playing together a lot. Beau, my oldest, knew Paco for nine years. And for all that time, they did everything together. I can still picture them wandering around that open field, near that park. Like brothers…

I know a place,
Where everything's alright,
Alright,
Let's go out tonight. *

They were such good buddies. Paco would clean Beau’s eyes and ears every week. I saw Beau run around the yard the day Paco died, trying to find Paco’s scent. But then the rain came and… washed him away.

These past weeks I rerun his final day over and over again, like scenes from a movie.. I think about all of his last times… the last walk, the last meal, the last night – sleeping beside me, the last morning spent basking in the sun, his last visit to my Mother’s house, the last time we played tug of war. The night before… we sat on the couch side by side as always and he began to nurse on a pair of shorts I normally would not allow him to nip away at, but… how could I refuse him? And what difference would it make in the big picture. What difference, tomorrow? The next day, the shorts would still be here, a little more worn and marred, but he would be gone. Now, I look at the tiny teeth marks and I’m glad I let him chew them.

For a long time now, I’d thought I’d made my peace with death. The idea of it. And for myself, I think I have – it doesn’t bother me, and I don’t fear it. It’s not like I haven’t lost others – lovers and friends and family – before. But Paco’s death… losing him… it has me questioning a lot about my life and the choices I make, how and where I spend my time. What is this life? I question, too, what happened… where did he go? Where is he? The hole left, so much larger than the size of his tiny body. I look at pictures and see how he used to let me hold him, like an infant – he trusted me so much. And, while I know that it was time… that he was suffering, there remains a tiny voice of doubt that wonders if I made the right choice. Did I betray that trust?

I stopped writing that day. I tried. But it all felt forced and barren, like writing a shopping list. My usual self-imposed deadline for this blog loomed in front of me and I felt powerless, unable to commit thoughts to paper or entertain the hollowness of the clacking keyboard. So I gave myself permission to not write that week. And that lapse turned into three. As this month’s end grew closer, I knew it was time to attempt something.

I’m not editing this post very much and I don’t care if it isn’t perfect or well written. Maybe this piece doesn’t do Paco justice. Maybe it doesn’t tell the whole story or shed any light on what happened or capture any great truth.

Except, maybe one…

Hearts stop.

They break, too.

*(Let’s Go Out Tonight – written by Paul Buchanan)