My Little Red Dog

*Editor’s Note: This entry is published from a real-time perspective, as penned originally. Due to its emotional content, the author debated on whether to include it, and ultimately decided relaying his micro-apocalypses within his individual life during the year of 2020, was a fair addendum to the macro-apocalypses occurring outside.

I’m gutted.

Utterly heartbroken.

Typing this through tears, that’s all I got today, a shit ton of burning tears.

My gal convinced me to put pen to paper in my grief.

I don’t really want to, but here’s as good a place to purge these emotions out as any, I suppose. Better than taking it out on the next unmasked idiot I see on the street, which is what I feel like doing right now.

So I’ve mentioned my dogs.

Australian Shepherds.

They’re the best.

They’re everything to me.

They’re as much my children to me as my human ones. I don’t distinguish my bonds based on species nor life spans.

My eldest girl is a red tri.

Her name is Tara.

She is the matriarch of our entire clan.

She died today.