I follow her to a small rectangular hole in the dirt near the plum tree that Woody loves to stand under to do his most aerobic activity lately: sniff the air. She points down and there in the hole I see Woody, lying on his side.
"Oh, Woody, silly boy," I say, bending down. "What are you doing in there? You're going to get all dirty."
The Post Office lady is suddenly my sister, Jen, and she is looking at me, troubled. I look at her and say, "He's just sleeping," and I scoop him up and carry him inside, back to his green blanket in the living room.
*
You could say there are two types of people in the world:
(1) Those that say, "It's just a dog," and
(2) Those that look at you with sad, screaming eyes that say, "I understand."
But, really, there is only one kind of human: the kind that feels pain. The kind that realizes Grief is a form of insanity; that Loss actually feels like a stabbing through the breastbone; that abandonment is nothing short of an emotional mauling.
That, to love a life is never "just" anything:
It is everything.
This Blog is for you all.
