(no subject)
"People who are half convinced of themselves only get half the things they want. - David Brock
It has been a nostalgic day.
Reading emails from what seems like a life time away.
Remembering goals from what seems like someone else's life.
Wondering where to go from here, and what is it I truly want.
It was only one week ago that I was hit hard in the face with the real truth that I am far from being healed over Burbear's death. I'll never forget his trainer giving us the analogy of the good side & bad side of a dog, which I may have detailed here before, but here I go again with repeating myself and not really caring. It's like I'm an 80 year old in a 27 year old's body.
"Imagine you are a vet, on call, and get the page about a dog that was just brought in, hit by a car. You walk in, and it's your dream dog, this beautiful dog with big eyes that are calling out to you to help. This is your perfect dog. And the side you can see doesn't look too bad, a few artificial abrasions, nothing that can't heal.
And then you look at the other side of the dog: there are deep wounds, a broken leg, and extensive damage that you know you could repair, but it may take years of therapy and multiple surgeries to even hope for a better life, and the dog may need to be euthanized from the wounds somewhere along the way.
Burbear has the most beautiful right side. He is a beautiful, loving dog. He is gorgeous and pulls at everyone's heart strings. But his other side is so irreparably damaged, so deeply wounded, you can't fix it."
But god was that right side breathtaking.
The night we euthanized him, she just kept repeating how beautiful that right side was. My heart aches to remember just how beautiful.
For every pet I've lost, I have written a story about their life, usually sent out by email or posted on my blog as a tribute to their existence. They all have frames with their clay paw prints and my favourite photos of them.
Burbear's pawprint still hides in its box.
His ashes still sit in a cedar container.
His story has not been written.
Tomorrow I am meeting a chocolate sharpei mix that is looking for a new home. I had promised myself another dog was not in the cards for right now, after toying with the idea of adoption a few weeks ago. But how things change, how my heart breaks with compassion and how I seem to be hard wired to fill whatever void it is I have with sheltering animals. (I've realized I will be hard pressed to find a man who isn't scared away by the number of pets I have. When asked, I just give vague descriptions. That'll do thank you)
But I've also realized that my goals can be achieved how I want them with the pets I have. I can be as busy as I like and structure it around them. Summing up from Frankie, who sings Burbear's song "Call Me Irresponsible", I'll do it my way.
With them.
It has been a nostalgic day.
Reading emails from what seems like a life time away.
Remembering goals from what seems like someone else's life.
Wondering where to go from here, and what is it I truly want.
It was only one week ago that I was hit hard in the face with the real truth that I am far from being healed over Burbear's death. I'll never forget his trainer giving us the analogy of the good side & bad side of a dog, which I may have detailed here before, but here I go again with repeating myself and not really caring. It's like I'm an 80 year old in a 27 year old's body.
"Imagine you are a vet, on call, and get the page about a dog that was just brought in, hit by a car. You walk in, and it's your dream dog, this beautiful dog with big eyes that are calling out to you to help. This is your perfect dog. And the side you can see doesn't look too bad, a few artificial abrasions, nothing that can't heal.
And then you look at the other side of the dog: there are deep wounds, a broken leg, and extensive damage that you know you could repair, but it may take years of therapy and multiple surgeries to even hope for a better life, and the dog may need to be euthanized from the wounds somewhere along the way.
Burbear has the most beautiful right side. He is a beautiful, loving dog. He is gorgeous and pulls at everyone's heart strings. But his other side is so irreparably damaged, so deeply wounded, you can't fix it."
But god was that right side breathtaking.
The night we euthanized him, she just kept repeating how beautiful that right side was. My heart aches to remember just how beautiful.
For every pet I've lost, I have written a story about their life, usually sent out by email or posted on my blog as a tribute to their existence. They all have frames with their clay paw prints and my favourite photos of them.
Burbear's pawprint still hides in its box.
His ashes still sit in a cedar container.
His story has not been written.
Tomorrow I am meeting a chocolate sharpei mix that is looking for a new home. I had promised myself another dog was not in the cards for right now, after toying with the idea of adoption a few weeks ago. But how things change, how my heart breaks with compassion and how I seem to be hard wired to fill whatever void it is I have with sheltering animals. (I've realized I will be hard pressed to find a man who isn't scared away by the number of pets I have. When asked, I just give vague descriptions. That'll do thank you)
But I've also realized that my goals can be achieved how I want them with the pets I have. I can be as busy as I like and structure it around them. Summing up from Frankie, who sings Burbear's song "Call Me Irresponsible", I'll do it my way.
With them.