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Post by sadie1263 on Jul 1, 2011 0:08:48 GMT
Wasn't sure where to put this........ When Lucky died: A grief observed, on social media By Bob Sullivan GOLDEN, Colo. — There's a reason the expression goes "You look like your dog just died." Losing a dog is a sadness so profound that it's useless to explain to anyone who hasn't been through it. In fact, finding others who understand is probably the only way to get through it. This story will explain how this devoted skeptic of social media found it to be a great source of comfort during my time of great need. Many of you know that last year I traveled America with my golden retriever, sniffing out scams and ripoffs as part of "Bob and Lucky's Hidden Fee Tour of America." (There was even a theme song.) Naturally, Lucky stole the show, getting on national TV twice and appearing live on local TV in several towns along the way from Washington to Seattle. His pawprint was far more popular than my signature at every book signing. We made hundreds of friends in dozens of newsrooms, bookstores, hotels and rest stops along the way. He spent nearly all of those 3,000 miles with his head nudged onto my right shoulder, leaving drool stains on the right arm of every shirt I had brought for the trip. We were all set to make the same trip this summer, but Lucky decided to go on a longer road trip instead, taking the expressway to dog Heaven on June 11. He was roughly 10 years old — he was a rescue, and he landed in my life eight years ago — and the calendar said I should be ready for this. I was not. He acted like a puppy until the day he died. Right to his last afternoon, every muscle of his oversize body was desperate to say hello to every man, woman and squirrel we encountered. So it was a complete shock when he died of heart trouble — an enlarged heart, to no surprise — during one horrible night at the vet a few weeks ago. I am writing this piece in Golden, Colo. — that’s an accident, but a good one. Lucky sure would have liked it here: My hotel is crawling with dogs. * * * Comparing personal tragedies is a game you should never play, and I would never dare say my sadness is equal to that of anyone who's lost a job, a home or a child. I will say simply that in losing Lucky this month, my sorrow is complete. When I finally got home to my family about 5 a.m. that awful night, I lay in bed wide awake and could feel every cell of my body hurt. I can still feel that as I type now. No one, nowhere, will ever love me like Lucky did. He was typically food-obsessed, scarfing every meal in seconds, but there was one time he wouldn't eat — if I were rushing in the morning and threw food in his bowl on my way out the door. On those occasions, when I came home after work, I would find his food still in the bowl. In the morning, he'd followed me to the door, laid down and waited there for me all day. The second I opened the door, he'd say a quick hello, and then the poor starved animal would run to eat his breakfast at 6 p.m. He just couldn't eat without me. Now, I feel the same way. This kind of loss leaves you searching for answers, and in the sleepless nights that followed I spent a lot of time fruitlessly reading about enlarged hearts, alternatively looking for an explanation that might calm my racing analytical mind or an excuse to blame myself for the ailment to distract my aching heart. You probably know the ending to that trip. I found no answers. But I did find a lot of places to share. For all its faults, the Internet is very good at sharing. In particular, for all the scary things about social media — Facebook's consistent abuse of privacy and the Twitterverse’s self-absorption — I found these tools indispensible in my grief. Sharing makes nothing better. It doesn't replace a wet nose, a joyful face, the endless presence of love that follows you everywhere. But still, sharing eases pain. * * * for more redtape.msnbc.msn.com/_news/2011/06/30/6979113-when-lucky-died-a-grief-observed-on-social-media
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Post by Deleted on Jul 6, 2011 19:13:13 GMT
We still have that to come. First dog an' all, no kids. Dreading it.
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