The Eskimo Spitz name was “Baby,” because she was everyone's baby. She had strut around the house among bigger and stronger dogs as if she owned the place, which I think she did. I once saw her walk into the kitchen behind Tom-In-Law, tap on the floor three times, and receive bacon. No joke, she had all the other dogs trained, too. She was more a princes, strong, commanding, and beautiful, than she was a baby. Also, I'm almost sure she had no neck.
I'm still a stranger in this house, and I held no attachment to this dog, but that didn't change the atmosphere I saw that day nor it's effect on me. The sky literally darkened over the Sylvester house as word spread to house hold family members and the tears flowed almost as fast as the rain fall outside. I held my mother-in-law as she poured out her pain from her eyes. I saw my father-in-law's face puff up from his sadness that he tried to hide from us. My wife seems to sink into a gravity well of weight from the news. Something died and left a dog shaped hole in the heart of the house. I've never seen anything like it.
It's rainy here in Baltimore. Has been since Saturday. We all seem to be climbing out of our respective holes slowly and studiedly. Poet and I had our fights and our cries as we bump into each other's hearts and we're mostly over it and I'm watching the storm quietly pass. It seems I'm living in dark times, these days. My own family is rotting, my marriage is tempering, and things are dying around me. I'm not depressed anymore, but no hopeful either. It's difficult, but I'm trying to integrate some rather personal spiritual natures into my warped perception as I try and make sense of it all. It's still raining.
God, I need to see Scott Pilgrim.