Satch died in my arms yesterday. Today is the seventy-ninth anniversary of my father’s birth. And while I have already written beyond extensively about my father’s life—namely our horrible relationship—and my oldest dog’s life (and waiting for his death), I’m not quite finished with all that yet. Living with Satch was, at times, like living with my father. There were vast differences, of course—for one, Satch was slavishly dedicated to me, eager for my time and attention, at the ready with a wag far more often than not. And yet, like my father, Satch was difficult, randomly aggressive, tenacious to a fault, not interested in putting things down, and extremely bossy with the rest of the pack. He snapped unpredictably, and in the end that snapping extended to me—twice in the past few weeks he came close to biting me. more ›

Of my many character flaws, one of the greatest is my inability to let go, even when letting go is so clearly the only truly healthy thing to do. But I am ferocious about relationships, wanting to hold on, to take any measure possible to keep in my life that which is no longer mine for keeping. And so it is, once again. I reflect on my time together with him—the long walks, sleeping together night after night, telling him favorite stories, laughing at him in some of the ridiculous outfits he sometimes wears. I grasp for memories of all the good times and try to push away how over the past few months he snapped at me in a way that was actually dangerous. I try to ignore this and other signs that the end is imminent, and that even if I refuse to let go, he is going to leave me anyway. And no matter which way it goes, I will be left with a grief that I feel desperate to bypass. Because I know grief, know it far too well, and grief is bloody motherfucking hell. more ›