Six years...

I think I may take a little time off, for the next few days. Of course, knowing me, it won't last long. I'm a chatterbox. You might not know that upon first meeting me, as I tend to start out pretty quiet, observing, but once I'm comfortable watch out.

Six years ago, this month, my 17-1/2 year old dog went home. I still miss her. I'm still in mourning.

Every year, I acknowledge the day and try to soldier on. This year, I just can't.

This year, maybe it's the excitement of being published, and I'm afraid of being happy.

Actually, I wish she were here to share it. She was there when it all started. She put up with the writing into the wee hours of the morning because I couldn't turn off the story.

Arthur, the dog in A Promise of Possibilities, was actually created with my furry baby as the model.

Maybe, this year, I finally feel like I don't have to pretend like everything is okay when it isn't. I want a peaceful, orderly room, but then I'm all too aware of her absence.

She won't care if the book is a success or a failure. She didn't care if I was fat or skinny, pretty or ugly, rich or poor, famous or anonymous. She didn't care what an emotional moron I was or how damaged I was or how scarred. She only cared that I fed her, played with her, cuddled her when she wanted it, and took her outside when she needed. When I felt the least lovable, she still thought I was. She created the game to let me know when she wasn't cross with me anymore and allowed me to use the same method to let her know when I wasn't cross anymore.

This was our last professional picture. It's more than ten years old. She's wasn't particularly friendly, being incredibly shy, but she was as sweet as a summer day is long.