It goes like this:

Every moment is still a grieving moment.  Every moment is still the carrying of what is lost, compounded by what is found, and makes less sense as the time passes.  And then, I find myself on the floor of a hotel room with my pup, throwing a ragged squeaking toy duck across the slick fake wooden floors.  She brings it back in a half retrieve, half cuddle, and I am laughing at her and the pain is easing.

And then the dread seeps in.  I don’t recognize it’s source, but I recognize the feeling.

“Oh no,” I say to my Someone, “it’s happening again.”

“I know,” he says.

Love without a safety net.  Love even though you know it’s going to be ripped from your arms faster than the squeaker from a toy duck in the jaws of an 83 pound puppy.

The sick feeling passes.

“You are going to shred me one day,” I say to my puppy, “But it’ll be worth it.”

She puddles up on my lap.

Love is a bitch.