Thanks, everyone, for your words and support. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.

It's now been a week since he passed, and I'm doing okay. I'm still having a hard time adjusting to him not being there, but I've reached a point where I am not bawling at various times during the day. For the first week, that's about all I could do. Wouldn't you know it, everywhere I looked I saw poodles. I live 17 years rarely spotting them in media or around, and the one week I could do without it, they are everywhere. Dog food commercials would make me cry. Thinking about him would make me cry. Seeing he wasn't there would make me cry. Heh, writing this is making me cry. But, you know what? I think it's okay. That dog was my baby. He was my constant and only truly reliable friend all these years. He was part of my family. And losing part of your family, no matter how big or small that part is, is hard. So I'm okay with the fact that I'm going to cry for a while. It's part of the process of healing. And I am healing. Slowly but surely I am making progress. I've been able to talk about him, think about him and look at pictures of him without crying. It's a huge step. I picked up his water bowl and rug. I've collected his sweaters. I washed his little "Attack Poodle" shirt and put it on my teddy bear. Perhaps that's creepy to some, but to me it's a comfort.I haven't been able to pick up the little nest he has in my doorway. That was his guard post and his spot. Moving it is just too..final, I suppose.

It's still somewhat surreal to think about him not being here. My parents have been watching me closely, constantly telling me not to wallow or let myself get consumed by this. I understand why they worry, but it was somewhat irritating. They handle grief and emotion a lot differently than I do and since they don't understand my need for big emotions, they worry. They are very reserved and I am...well, I'm the opposite of reserved. For the first few days, my dad would ask me how I was and then ask me if I was still being sad. Then he'd tell me he'd been a little sad that day, too. This was while I was still randomly sobbing throughout the day, so I thought it was pretty obvious, and understandable, that I was still sad. I think I'm going to be sad for quite some time. But I'm going to be okay.

I've brought up the subject of getting another dog. I know we still have Maxwell, but Maxwell is 100% my dad's dog. He worships my dad. He follows him everywhere and he gets so damn excited when he comes home you'd think he hadn't seen him for weeks. I need my dog. I need a small little protector that I can snuggle. I am wanting to adopt an older toy poodle. I don't need a puppy right now, though I wouldn't say no to one. And I want another poodle. I can't imagine what it's like picking up your dog and having them leave hair behind. And they are just such damn good dogs. I think Tango has spoiled me.

Anyways, my dad said they'd be willing to think about the subject, but he and my mom are getting tired of taking care of things. I know they'd have to take care of it a little bit while I live here, but the big portion of the care would fall on me. And I can't NOT have a dog. I hate it too much. It's too lonely. So I'm hoping they will relent on this, especially considering it won't be a puppy.

Speaking of Maxwell, I think he's missing Tango. Yesterday, he wanted to go out at least twice an hour. He'd usually get thrown outside every time Tango went because he was a buttface who would wait until Tango came in to want to go out. But he kept going out, coming right back in and then going out again.

I painted a stone to put on his grave next week for his birthday. I put the lyric "If I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any less" on it, because Zevon is one of my favorite artists and that song has been a comfort source to me throughout this.



I've always loved that song. It's simple, it's sweet and it's poignant. And it is forever going to remind me of my precious little guy.

It was so cathartic, making that rock to lay on his grave. My mom think's it's too much like a head stone, but I don't care. It gave me a bit of closure,being able to do that. The night I made it I was having a REALLY hard time, sobbing like crazy. But I went down stairs, painted that simple lyric on a stone and felt a remarkable sense of peace. And that was the last night I cried. And since then, I've been able to smile about him, think about him, talk about him and acknowledge my loss without feeling the great, gaping wound of grief rip open again. I couldn't ask for a better gift.