Double Dose of Grief

This week has been hard.
Maybe that’s not the right word.
Heartbreaking. Rough. Raw.
My best friend, Molly the Maremma mountain dog, lost her battle with breast cancer on Thursday. She was loving, too damn smart for her own good, gun shy, and always happy. I was HER person. My lap was the safest place in the universe. She loved me. No matter what. She loved me.
I miss her. I miss EVERYTHING about her. That deep bark at anything that moved. Snoring louder than I do. Grumbling and slapping the crate door when it was time to get up. Even her tearing hell out of three extra large dog crates, my back yard, my favorite silk skirt, and my chain link fence. Her obnoxiously ringing the large jingle bells on the back door when she wanted out for the third time in the last hour. To have her gallop across the yard and snort on the barn cats, just to make them hiss and grumble. I would happily endure all of that all over again. Every minute of the frustration was precious. I was her momma from the time I retrieved her from that tiny kennel in a back yard, because she wasn’t small and cute anymore.
My house was her forever home and I was her forever fur mom. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I know she would want me to pour all of my love on the rest of the critters here. And I am trying.
Right now, I have a job but the agency I work for hasn’t had any new clients admitted. That means I have no work hours.
A second dose of grief.
I bounce between the stages of grief. Sometimes several times a day. Like one of those blue rubber balls in a fierce game of handball.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
I miss you, fluppy lap puppy. You were taken from me all too soon.
Love,
your fur-ever momma

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