and how you looked after it

Your Dog Dies

it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.



Raymond Carver



I will have to decide, shortly, what to do about Stella.

After a full morning of tests, the vet found that Stella has GDV, or gastric dilation volvulus. Although Stella can undergo surgery, the vet says that the surgery is tricky and that there is a 1 in 3 chance that Stella could die. Should I have Stella undergo surgery and possibly die? Or should I have the vet put her down, peacefully? My head feels like it's going to explode.

The poem above was written by Raymond Carver, a 20th century American writer who wrote about real people in real places with real problems. I completely understand what Carver's conveying in this poem. Life is pain. Things happen. Terrible things. And we reform ourselves accordingly, and for a brief moment, we trick ourselves into believing that pain is necessary in order for positive change to occur. And just when we believe this, we are haunted by pain, marred by its ugly revelation, and thrown into the spectral void of darkness.

I'm tired of this cycle.

Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by death. It waits for me to make itself a joke and I'm never in the mood for laughing. Even though Stella is a dog, she is part of my family and I love her. She is not my significant other, but she is one of my companions, and if she dies, she will take with her a part of my being.

I called Guy after I spoke with the vet and he told me that maybe it's not as serious as it sounds. Then, he told me that I should pray. I haven't prayed in a long time, not since my sentencing. Why should I start now? If God was God, would he listen to my pleas? I would ignore me if I was God.

What does Stella want me to do? Has she given up?

I don't want to rely on prayer.
I don't want pain to take me by surprise.

Stella will sleep, peacefully.