Slick, my 15 year old dog, died last night. I had to put him to sleep; his heart disease progressed, and he was left a shell of his former self, and was starting to suffer.
Today, I am left empty. I feel soulless; those of you who love companion animals deeply will understand. And so today, I will write, in spite it all. I will write with a heavy heart, with a deep and profound loneliness that rattles me to the core. I will write, because in the end, it truly does not matter if I do or don't so I just might as well. This is how I have managed through the years, through deaths, disease, heartache. I write because, I write in spite of, I write anyhow.
Slick, I write these words for you today. Your life gave me life, your warmth and grouchy love gave me the comfort to write books I never dreamed would be able to, articles I did not know I had in me. You, dear sweat and grouchy boy, mattered to me.
And this dear readers, is all I have to offer to you today. If you write today, and if I ever have inspired you to write, please dedicate a few of your words to the memory of my dear boy, Slick.