Becoming who we are

I heart irony. Really. I love that, unbeknownst to me, my recent trip to Houston by way of Oklahoma with my Grandma (a.k.a. Old Granny) fell on homecoming week at my home town high school. Go Sandites! I was even considering sticking around upon my return and going to the Friday homecoming parade, for old times sake, that is, until the dog died.

Seriously. Gypsy, a wonderful mix of a mutt that we found abandoned on the beach at Galveston Island in 1996 died when I was in Houston with Old Granny. She had a stroke a few days before and at first, Mom and Dad feared that they would have to put her to sleep. A few days later, the Vets were positive about her recovery. Then, on Wednesday, Dad and I went to the Vet and brought Gypsy home. We all thought she was on the mend. Good news in a house that hasn't had much in a long time.

Then she died.

Gypsy woke my Dad up early the next morning, fighting for her life. This struggle to survive went on, painfully, for an hour, until she eventually expired on the floor next to my Mom and Dad's bed.

Which is where I found Gypsy the next morning. Covered with a black sheet. Urine, feces, and blood pooling out from her rigid body.

I'll never forget Dad coming into the office were I slept on a pull out sofa, asking me for help. At first, I thought something had happened to my Mom or Grandma, before he told me it was Gypsy. The look on his face is seared in my brain, as is the image of my frail and newly bald Mom, sitting in her wheelchair by the dining room table, watching Dad and I carry Gypsy out of the house in that black sheet. That sheet has been on the bed of my childhood on one of my recent visits to their house. Now it was Gypsy's body bag. That's what I was thinking as we carried her out of the house, as my poor dying Mother, thanked me, for being there to help my Dad.

I heart irony, honest, because if I didn't, I think might lose my mind.

Until I BLOG again...Wake me up when September ends