In my several decades on this planet, I’ve lost a number of beloved people and pets. For some reason, Buddy’s death has been the hardest I can recall. Last Friday, March 29, marked the one-year anniversary of his passing, and I was a wreck. At one point, I sat on the floor next to the bookcase, rereading Gwen Cooper’s account of when she had to let her beloved Homer go and ugly-crying like I hadn’t in a long, long time. Continue reading
I awoke this morning to news of the second celebrity this week to die by his or her own hand. When news of Kate Spade’s death broke, and now with Anthony Bourdain’s passing, newsfeeds and Twitter are flooded with images of the people and their work, as well as tributes by people who knew them, who were touched by them, or who simply enjoyed or admired what they put out into the world.
But there have been others. Too many others. The ones who depart not with fanfare, but with a whisper. The ones whose pain led them to slip quietly out the door of life, leaving only a handful of devastated mourners. Continue reading
Last weekend, I started writing a blog post about my sweet Buddy. He was lying in my lap as I wrote, dozing and sometimes purring.
That post ended up getting bumped when a friend called to advise me of the horrible tragic death of someone I’d known as a friend and to whom she’d been much closer. I thought I had more time to write about Buddy.
I was wrong. At least if I wanted to write about him during his lifetime.