Lizzie’s passing has made me angry at her former owners.
I understand why they gave her up and perhaps I’d have done the same under the circumstances.
Even so, I think it was wrong to put her through changes in the last months of her life.
It’s been a relatively temperate winter here, but colder than in Tiverton.
I miss her but not her pain or blindness or cleaning up after her or the frustration of not knowing how to end her suffering. We spared nothing except experiences that maybe would have made us feel better but which she hated: grooming, having her nails clipped.
Anger is supposedly a stage of grieving, in which case I’m on track for depression next, then acceptance.
I hope Ron is okay. We did go to bed together last night, for the first time in many months. Evidently that’s something we both missed.
I was relieved to not have to send Liz out in bitter cold this morning or to creep around, fearing to wake her up, or to put barricades up around areas where she’d try to hide, get stuck and whimper or worse, get hurt.