Friends - my 365 days of thrifting is going on a break. It'll come back. Like's it's a person, or something. Let's pretend it's on vacation. To Myrtle Beach. 1962.
This is something I can talk about. And I need to. So I will. I am not afraid of sounding macabre. Or overwrought. Or silly. Or freakish. The things that happen to me, to you - they happen. Therefore they belong to us. Are a part of us. And to try to brush them away is a negation of self.
It's weird, though. I think I'm just now starting to understand the true nature of emotions, of grief. I feel normal enough and then something edges itself into my mind and I twitch and have to either give in or stuff it underneath until later. It always comes back out, though. With a vengeance, if it has to.
So today was ok enough. So far. I am normally somewhat reserved and generally cheerful, if kind of intense, too. But I haven't felt like being "good". "Okay" is good enough.
My heart is extra with my mom, who has to live where Biff lived. I honestly was grateful to go. I never thought home - Illinois home - would be some place I would avoid. But I don't want to see where he's no longer. I don't want to trace his ways. I walked into the house twice - and each time I waited to hear his solid little body, with his little clicking claws, on the floor, coming to greet me, wiggling. Although he really wasn't up to that lately.
So I'm in a more abstract world of loss. His big picture - him in pink polka dots - is where it always is, by my desk. I have a photo album of him, half-finished. The rest of the pictures are in a stack. Looking through them is strange. How his personality was always his from day one, but definitely changed as he got older. Still him, but... more mature? The Biff when I was 26, definitely not the Biff of when I was, say, 32. But still him.
That's something. I love other animals, I enjoy other animals, I'd had pets throughout my childhood and teens - but this was just different. Was it because I raised him? (Which was HARD) Trained him? I knew him. I honestly knew him like I know my own skin. Know him. His smell was, is, so wonderful to me. We love the smell of those we love. He would always tolerate my burying my face in his fawn fur. I will not ever forget his smell, but it lacerates me to know that his things, which I have, might finally just let his smell go. How dare they. How dare the earth. Change and give things up. Including a small little sausage dog who was tolerant, oh so tolerant, and funny, and stubborn, and sweet. So effing sweet.
He was mine. I never got over having to give him up, even though he was going to the close and trusted care of my parents. I would ache for him, nightly, so bad sometimes that I would cry. I felt so guilty. He didn't know. He didn't understand. He would sit next to the door of the room I sleep in, at my parent's house, when I was home. Buried his face between my leg and the cabinet when I would cook. This used to kill me. Right now, it just reminds me that we belonged together. I was his, too.
My body is sore from hurt. Screams make you tense. I don't cry so much as silently scream. I can't shut my mouth. My throat hurts from talking about him through these extra-bad moments. Talking to him.
I don't even feel much like having a lot of compassion right now. Which is so strange. I drove home to put him down, and people just kept doing what they do in cars, everyone being egomaniacs sheathed in metal, and no one knew or cared that I was about to put one of my favorite, favoritist of things, down. I wonder if they would care. Some of my students today, were the same. Just weren't sheathed in metal. I wondered what they would do if they knew. I operate from a place of rather extreme value, of empathy. But I know others don't. And I knew it, today. I will have to go through plenty of days where I am not a person to other people, just some other car to get by. They won't know. They won't know. They don't know my dog.
And that is why I'm letting myself feel. He is alive, as long as I'm alive. Of course I won't forget. He's with me every day. A funny little... what's it called? Daemon familiar? Spirit animal? Patronus or something? My patronus is Biff.
I just think my soul is Biff.
I can't say goodbye to my sweet little fat soul. I'm not going to.