My 7th dog died in April of 2009. (recall that Bob is my 8th) In addition to grieving her death, I also knew in my gut that she was the glue of our marriage. We were staying together for the dog.
I gave him time to grieve -- she was his first dog -- oops, no second. When we met, I had a beloved purebred who tragically died at only 5, and he loved her as much as I did. Umm, there was a lot of other shit that happened at the same time she died. Maybe for a later post. Anyway, after a year I started lobbying for another trip to the Humane Society. He argued that he wasn't willing to risk this pain again. I kept pushing. He bonded with our (standoffish) cat. Said cat (who had actually become quite lovable) died in his lap in November 2010.
I knew that we had been staying together for the cat. Umm. Up a Crick.
And sure enough, he left me in February 2011.
Ah, it's hard to even look at the words "February 2011". The pain, the emotional hemorarrghing. Ouch. OK. Breathe.
The Friday after he moved out, I was driving into work and decided right then to take a half day vacation that afternoon and get MYSELF a dog.
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