Grief lives in tiny boxes in our hearts.

My dad died a month or two back, Clashtalk. I did not shed a tear, not one. Not because I didn't love or admire or respect him, I did all of those things. But it seemed like the best outcome of a bad situation. And that dying in one's own bed at home in one's nineties is really a fate we should all be happy to have.

And today I find out an internet friend's dog is sick. Like, this dog is her pride and joy, she posts pictures of her the way a proud mama posts proud baby pictures. And now her baby has a bad sickness, no results are back, but it doesn't look good, it looks like a rare and aggressive form of dog cancer. I hope not. But still.

And I'm just a crying mess. Why is the universe cruel to the small and soft and innocent?

My first cat, my wife's cat, the cat that changed me from team dog to team cat, gasped out the last of her life on the morning that the space shuttle Columbia blew apart over Texas, Saturday, February 1st, 2003. I sat in the waiting room in the vet's office listening to the news on the overhead radio, clinically, not really caring. Because my friend of many years was dying. And people die all the time, and they're not my friends.

Animals have always been more dear to me than people. And yet I'm an enthusiastic carnivore who is happy to devour non-friends with a nice Bordelaise sauce and a few glasses of wine.


Riddle me that, Clashtalk.