It’s mid-August 2012 and its been a very dry summer. Its the start of a hay shortage if we don’t have some rain soon. Really soon. Like yesterday. We don’t have enough hay to get us through the winter and I’m a little worried.
A few weeks ago we lost Mr G Smith. He seemed healthy until Brent noticed he wasn’t walking well at 10am on a Tuesday. I brought him in the house and we started some antibiotic therapy, but we were too late and he died later that night. This is the sadness of having a geriatric farm as the old animals will die one day. Mr. W Smith is still doing well. He’s actually biting less and allowing me to pet him more.
The memory of Gizmo’s death has become fragmented and is lodged in my brain like many pieces of jagged glass. At any given moment a blinding spotlight could hit one of those images taking me back in time.
Every day since Gizmo died I see his face. His alive face full of fun and I can feel my heart breaking all over again. How do I let him go?
There are many wonderful sayings such as: when a dog dies he takes a piece of your heart and with the arrival of another dog it gives you a new piece of heart. There must be something wrong with my heart because it no longer fits back together correctly. The pieces are all too small and shriveled. They are too open and bleeding. They don’t belong together anymore.