Our dog is dying. And there will be more about him later because he has been sewn into my identity, our identity and his passing will not go without ripping some seams. But right now… we are waiting. I am watching his stomach for breathe when I walk past him, first thing in the morning, in the dark when I get up to do something. He takes in long, slow swallows of air through the night and I can hear him breathing like it’s hard and I know that breathing shouldn’t be hard. But then he will perk up and yesterday I swear he came back from the past. His…
A fundamentalist turned freedom chaser with an obnoxiously stubborn faith.