I’ll find you.

I’m having a hard time falling apart.

Usually, I break like fine china, but as I watch my best friend, the love of my life, my dog slip into the final chapter of his too-short life, I find myself without a proper outlet to lose my cool.  I am a 35-year-old woman who’s only experience with true, real love is in the eyes of a Cocker Spaniel who grunts when I snuggle him and wouldn’t kiss me if his life depended on it.

And I feel like the luckiest woman alive.

At home, I have been instructed to create nothing but harmony and peace to keep Carl’s mind at ease.  I understand this.  I agree with this.

I’m getting to the point that when I see people laughing and enjoying themselves, I want to grab their ears and scream into their faces, “Don’t you know that he’s dying?”  I have never lost someone that I love, and this one is a motherfucker.

But there’s time for that heartbreak, because today, right now, he is alive.  He’s still around to stretch out his back legs to show me his muscles, to get under the covers with me for 12 minutes every morning, and to get a snuggle sandwich from his mommy and papa.

And every time I leave the house, I whisper to him, “When you go, have fun and find us a perfect home with a big yard.  I’ll find you.”

And I will.