This time last year I learned my eight year old Border Collie, Abbey Road had Lymphoma. She was given two months to live, which she did, and passed on the 4th of July at home. I haven’t talked about it here. I haven’t talked about it much at all. So, I’m going to because this is how I communicate. This is where I work things out.

Part of the reason I didn’t want to talk about Abbey is that her sickness was the result of the actions of people who would be happy to learn of her suffering and death. My grief over her would warm their hearts. They are the only people I’ve ever met that I can say are truly evil. I’ve experienced cruelty, crime, abuses and assaults, but these people are evil. There is no other word to describe them.

The rest of the reason was that the past year was not only a three body problem of fuckery, but it was also one of the loneliest and downright hardest years I’ve ever had. I’ve had hard times. Enough for my neurologist to remark that my level of trauma was akin to a soldier newly returned from combat. But this?

I don’t mind being alone per se. I guess the right word is “unsupported.” There was no help, no compassion, no one to talk to. Even my therapist flaked out and started telling me her problems with her family and sending me YouTube videos about Rumi and manifestation instead of making her appointments with me. I’ve made three complaints to the Office of the Attorney General in my state for the worst business practices you can possibly imagine. A combination of grasping greed, ineptitude and lack of compassion that I hope you never experience especially in the middle of losing your dog!

I was called a whore and a thief. I was told my emotions were inappropriate and wrong. I’ve been shunned. I’ve been taken advantage of. And I’ve been isolated and alone. My historically steady partner of fifteen years apparently lost complete control of their senses and ran amok for a time. I talk to my niece by including her in my little “namaste prayer” at the end of my yoga and meditation practice along with Abbey every day. Oh, and our “birbs” are friends on Finch app.

And some of these people still read this blog. I know this because I have Google Analytics on this site. Having Google Analytics has taught me a lot, mainly: Turn off your location and search history, get a VPN and use Duck Duck Go. Google knows all and sees all, and it gives schmucks like me with free WordPress sites way too much information about you.

It’s weird to know that people are actively reading what you post to gain info on you. Especially since 65% of what I post are elaborate shower thoughts. A full 25% are me finally finding an answer to some debate I had in high school. And then the remaining 10% are mainly nonsense, with about 3% of actual current me news. And 100% is total bullshit.

Nevertheless, people often think I’m writing for or about them. Maybe something they said or did triggered the idea, but honey, you just ain’t all that interesting! There’s also the thoughts and feelings police who want me to know that, regardless of what I typed in two hours one afternoon, that I’m completely wrong! And not only wrong, but a bad person to boot! How dare I have that feeling and type it on the internet?! Have you actually ever seen the friggin internet? It’s wild. Check it out. There’s for real Nazis and people who get off to squirrels and children on there!

This is why I actively avoid talking about myself. I’m a jerk regardless of what I say or do. And maybe I am a jerk, but I’m not reading up on you for gossip fodder.

I had a revelation while contemplating an upcoming holiday, my move and the past year. That thought was “Fuck’em.” Because, let’s be honest, if you cannot summon an ounce of sympathy for someone whose young, beautiful walking buddy, fishing friend and adventure pal dog died, then YTA.

With all the movement and chaos of the last year, it’s only really now that in moments when I can be still that I recognize my own grief. I’ve even thought about how I never really was able to grieve my father. I went right into making my thesis film. I was young and alone with a man who was beginning to reel between different forms of abuse of people and substances, who never saw a nickel he didn’t immediately have to spend.

I was also in Philadelphia. And, while I love my Eagles, it’s a tough town. I’ll never forget the first time someone told me to go fuck myself after I moved away. I realized that it was basically how people in Philly said “hello,” and no one had said hello to me in my language for years! It was heartwarming, really. Also, Philly is haunted for me. Too many memories. It’s definitely where Buddhists should go to learn the First Noble Truth. “All life is suffering! Now gtfoh!”

Anyway, so, I will have another dog friend. Although I do think I’ve hit peak dog friend. And, rock star that she was, she died young. But I got too much love not to have a dog friend. And they sure af beat people as friends. Pretty sure Abbey’s occasional fights with my cats were to defend me from their slander! “Ya know, Jess could give us wet food more often if she wanted, but she hates you,” seems like something Mr. Puddems would say.

So, while I want to move and move on, I know that doing so means giving up on the hope that some people I love will never love me back or in the way I would hope for, so I should say and do as I please. And, when I finally get settled, that the era of Abbey will end. And that’s a finality that I’m still not sure I’m ready for. I won’t hear noises in the new house and think it’s her. I won’t expect her at the door when I come home. I won’t discover any more of her hidden bones and balls and frisbees. She’ll be gone for real.

It’s weird to think that someone might want another person who has suffered to suffer more. Or that it might make them glad. Or that someone would feel in a position to judge another person’s appropriate level of grief and pain, how they express that or for how long. I’ve seen other people talked about for their grief over a dog. It’s sick that there is someone reading this right now who will simply use my words for a new round of nitpicking and gossip about exactly how wrong I am.

Anyhow, you might have noticed that I’ve been cursing more in this post. Part of that is sometimes those words are correct for the occasion. But also, I know it’s one thing that really irks some of my avid Google Analytics fanbase.

So, do you self-censor when you write? How vulnerable do you let yourself be? And has anyone ever thought you were writing about them? Have you ever thought of your blog as just a place to put writing that’s too long for Facebook? I feel like whatever I write here is just a snapshot of me on a random day when I had a spare two hours. It’s no more “me” than a Facebook “memory” of a particularly nice dinner I had in 2017.

But listen, you beautiful, awesome, gorgeous, amazing legendary being, ’tis better to be talked about than forgotten. Otherwise, we wouldn’t write. We won’t be here forever. Might as well be memorable! Like my Baby Abbey.

Namaste

-J.Lakis

✌🏻❤️‍🩹🐕🐈💅🏻🧘🏻

Want to tell me I’m an idiot? Click below and leave a COMMENT! If you liked my ramblings, TAP the Star LIKE button. LIKE and SHARE on your social media. Follow and share! Click on my bio below for my social links.

If you’re considering suicide, self harm or have a mental health crisis: call or text 988 any time to talk or text with someone from the National Suicide Prevention and Crisis Hotline. Help is always available in English or Spanish. LGBTQ+ youth in crisis? Contact:  The Trevor Project.

If you or anyone you know has experienced sexual violence please contact RAIIN, for Domestic Violence in the US contact The Hotline. Both are available 24/7 by phone or chat in English and Spanish.