I left the beach around 9 last night, estimating that I'd be home around 12.30, and I pulled up in front of the house at 12:28. Booyah. My ability to read the "estimated driving time" on a google maps printout is, as the PBS special Mr Bennett would say, "positively occult."
I said hello to my parents whom I was happy to see and who were happy to see me, I turned off the living room lights, I fell into bed, I fell into a somewhat-fitful-but-still-better-than-nothing night's sleep.
Little Bit, who has been our dog since I was ten and whose name I am still defensive about, seems to be weakening by the day. He is now at a point where he usually (often?) cannot stand or walk without assistance. You'd think the next course of action would be clear, wouldn't you? But I just can't even think about it, much less look in his eyes and say or even know that this is the end. He is such a good, sweet dog. We love him so much. This has all happened so fast. We are so soft-hearted. I am going to cry. I wish we could go for just one last walk down to the creek, and then run back up our block together with him bounding ahead and looking back to make sure I'm still behind him, grinning mouth open, tongue hanging out.
But we can't.