Our two month "badiversary"

Two months, or eight weeks, FIFTY-SIX nights and days for Brindi in the pound, all those nights with the bed empty, no walks, no cheerful furry face next to me, no brown body wiggling with the wagging tail, not even a glimpse of her for all this time, only bad news.

It is hard to be detached about things today. My disbelief and shock and anger and sadness and grief and horror and fear and terror conspire against such a feat. I hope nobody out there has to go through this. There may be worse things indeed, but in my life, with all the ups and downs I have had, this is by far the worst, for its senselessness and frustration and duration. Among other things.

I cannot hold onto any other thought for very long.

"It is a dog, you know," says a lawyer. Many people say this, as if it would change my feelings, or the wrongness of the euthanization order. It's akin to others who said - not to me, thankfully, but friends: "It's just a dog."

Well, all I can say in response is, "It is death, you know. Senseless, needless killing that we are talking about." Just because she's a dog does not make it okay for a city to kill her, when a fence and training will take care of the problem. It is not okay to kill. Brindi is a dog, not vermin. I love her. She hears, smells, and loves me better than any human I know. She is irreplaceable. I will not simply go to the SPCA and "get another one," as one of the other dog owners suggested.

It is simply wrong to kill this dog. I cannot let something this wrong happen to an animal in my care. And I have to ask: with all the gifts I have been given, and the support coming from out there, if I can't save a dog, what good am I?

If we cannot honor these helpless creatures who love, give, and forgive us without a thought for themselves, what good are we?