I don’t feel like writing. I’ve started several pieces the last few days, none of which are flowing, none of which are finished and most of which are going to end up in the recycle bin.

I could declare “writer’s block” and buy a few wordless days. But, it isn’t writer’s block. What’s keeping me from writing is that the thing I want to write about sounds silly and dramatic. I don’t expect people to relate. There is only one solution, of course: turn into the skid and write the very thing I’m avoiding.

Our household is wracked with grief. When we aren’t doing something to distract ourselves, we are close to inconsolable. We’ve lost a family member – not someone who is “like a family member,” or “like one of our children,” but an integral part of our unit, our team. We buried Scout in the midst of a spring snowstorm, then couldn’t sleep because it felt wrong to leave her outdoors, in the cold she so hated. I spent yesterday fighting a no longer necessary routine. I cried in the grocery store because I didn’t have to hurry home to check on her. I cried every time I looked at her empty spot in our bedroom. I cried when I fed the rest of the pack and her empty bowl remained on the counter.

Nothing seems to work. I can’t “let go and let god,” find solace in a poem about a rainbow bridge or dedicate a park bench in her honor to subvert this experience.

I could get philosophical about why our pets are so important to us, but I don’t want to digress into some intellectual rubbish to explain away our feelings, or Scout’s importance to us. I refuse to write off our reaction to losing her by basing it on our own pathology.

And, I don’t necessarily want to feel less miserable right now. Our tears are a symbol of our love for her – and her love for us. Each tear is a memory. It will all fade soon enough.