Day before yesterday, legs unsteady, he led Garth on a slow walk, no leash. I wondered what had become of them, walked up to the corner and waited. There they came.
Yesterday, he let us know he was ready. Our hands on him while the vet administered the dose, we cried, cried some more as she placed him in a basket, tucked him in like he was sleeping.
Garth carried him out to her van, we waved goodbye, then took a long walk. We’ll keep talking about him, keep seeing him everywhere we look, keep crying. We’ll get through it.
Artist, writer, storyteller, spy. Okay, not a spy…I was just going for the rhythm.
I call myself “an inveterate dabbler.” (And my husband calls me “an invertebrate babbler.”) I just love to create one way or another. My latest passion is telling true stories live, on stage. Because it scares the hell out of me.
As a memoirist, I focus on the undercurrents. Drawing from memory, diaries, notes, letters and photographs, I never ever lie, but I do claim creative license when fleshing out actual events in order to enhance the literary quality, i.e., what I might have been wearing, what might have been on the table, what season it might have been. By virtue of its genre, memoir also adds a patina of introspection and insight that most probably did not exist in real time.