An Angel Departs, and in Her Place, a Devil

My mother's beloved ankle-biter and my favorite cuddle buddy, Trixie, died a few days ago. It wasn't entirely unexpected; Trixie was thirteen years old, but I'm melancholy all the same, because she was a total lovebug. Her stub of a tail would start wagging enthusiastically as soon as she saw me, and if she were being held, those tiny legs would paddle the air until she was carried to my lap. She would also present her belly for scritches and rubs at the drop of a hat, and never mind that I had trouble bending that far over the side of the chair. I was to lavish her with worship, and if I didn't scritch to her satisfaction, I was met with a haughty expression of queenly censure and a fluffy poodle ass for the rest of the evening.

I took great delight in making her rear legs twitch and paddle with orgasmic joy while her eyes narrowed to slits of narcotized bliss and her tongue lolled out of her mouth. I will miss her.

I can't imagine how my mother must feel. She wasn't here when Trixie died. She was visiting family in Florida. I have no doubt that she's devastated and wracked with guilt, as Trixie spent the first few months of her life nestled in the pocket of my mother's shirt, against her heart. She invested all the love she withheld from me in Trixie, loved her more than she ever loved me, and I'm quite sure she views this as the loss of her child.

I am sorry for her, because love is love, and loss is the same ugly hurt no matter what it stains, but I'm also afraid for myself. My mother grieves by smoking and drinking and throwing herself into projects so she won't have to think about the empty spaces in her life. I'm afraid she's going to come back from Florida and decide to heal her hurt by "fixing" me, by disrupting my life with constant visits and heaping criticism on my head for everything from my hair to my clothes to my music to the manner in which I choose to spend my days. I suffer for her grief because I cannot escape her, cannot run away, cannot plead succor for fear that those to whom I turn for relief would subject me to greater abuse, greater curtailment of my meager liberties, and greater indignity.

I must endure and hope her madness passes before my will breaks.

In Which a Dream Is Nearly Realized but for the Whims of Fortune

From rammstein_pimp





Damn you, Till, you merciless tease. Between this and Richard vest flashing, I'm in danger of spontaneously combusting.