Advice from a Small Town Girl

I really don't want to write this particular column.

As much as I don't want to, however, since I'm in the habit of over-sharing, I will.

Thursday evening, just as we were all getting ready for Deutschesfest, my sweet, crazy, irrepressible pup, who was "helping" my husband farm, ran in front of an oncoming vehicle.

As in the case of most such collisions, the vehicle won.

And Jackson, "Action Jackson" as I had taken to calling him, is no more.

My heart is broken.

My husband's heart is broken.

Even the cats, who pretended to hate the puppy, seem to be just a tiny bit heartbroken. It's hard to tell with cats.

It was not the fault of the driver of the pickup. It was not the fault of my husband. It was not the fault of the puppy.

If anyone is to blame, I believe it must be me.

I am the person who insisted on having another dog.

I am the person who then insisted on investing in a quilt shop, which has sucked up a great deal of time.

That in turn led to not spending enough time working with the pup.

He should have been trained, but I just didn't have enough time.

If I am to be completely honest with myself, I did have enough time. I just didn't manage it very well.

Instead of spending my evenings working with the dog, I would come home and settle into my recliner with a glass of wine and a book.

And that has pretty much been the pattern for longer than I care to admit. It was the pattern prior to our acquisition of a 6-week-old puppy nearly a year ago.

We have both said "no more dogs."

I didn't mean it.

So someday, much to my husband's probable dismay, another dog will come to live at our house.

But this time something will be different.

I will be different.

Well, I'll try to be different.

I hope I'll remember what happened Thursday, and do everything I can to prevent it happening again.

Because life is somehow less now. I still keep thinking I need to see what he's up to, and then I realize he's gone.

Yesterday evening I finally picked up all the eviscerated dog toys in the living room. I haven't vacuumed yet (my, but that dog could shed), but I will soon.

This is hard. It's really hard to accept responsibility for another life. It's really, really hard to admit that I should have done things differently.

This is hard.