Sweet Bayou, with her adorable face and shy disposition. When she warmed up to me, I filled with pride and excitement. Precious Bayou, my heart is broken, for all the butt scratches I’ll never give, and my beautiful, compassionate friends.
This photo was taken in 2003, when she was just a few years old. We had so many adventures over the years; I don’t know how much less I might have lived, how much more closed I’d have been, had I not taken her home from the veterinary hospital where I worked. It was 2001, and she’d been found, hairless and bruised and infected with mange and scabies and worms, in Bayou St. John; they dropped her with us, but she was nearly feral. In taking care of her, I bonded with her and took her home over the reasonable objections of many there, who’d noted how damaged and neurotic she was.
Tonight, Abby and I pressed our wet faces to her head as a doctor euthanized Bayou. She was 13 years old, dying from a bleeding belly tumor, too weak to move anything but her eyes. She was always so tough and sweet, always my close companion. These past years in San Francisco were a dream for her, and I guess I’ll try to hang on to that now that she’s gone.
Here are some photos of her being wonderful. Aren’t some of those fun? We were so much younger, and Louisiana was so green. And here are all the times I posted about her. I don’t care about these words in the slightest; for some reason, I just want to share her with you, show you photos of how she played and ran. She was here, with me, for the happiest years of my life.
goodbye sweet bayou. i’ll love you forever and ever.
I love you, Mills, Abby, Bayou, Five, and even Taco.
Meesha’s birthday was by far the most out-of-hand barbecue I’ve ever attended. I couldn’t even take real photos because nobody stopped dancing for five hours.
A strange symptom of modern technology presented itself in full glory yesterday: I got ~25 snapchats of the party during the event. Instant, self-destructing documentation of what I was experiencing concurrently in reality. Weird, man.
People I Did Not Know Who Were In My House Today:
1) A fifteen-year-old, sobbing hysterically and washing dishes.
2) A girl dressed in a “Thing 1” costume, presumably for Bay To Breakers
3) A girl dressed in a “Thing 2” costume, who asked me to turn on our shower.
4) My new roommate, who I have yet to be introduced to, rambling about losing his phone during the race.
5) A random teenager on my front stairs, listening to his iPod.
HOLY SHIT AUBRIE THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. EVER.
#tearingup
An approach I take to understand my own level of personal change is to revisit things I once loved but have lost familiarity. I do this often with clothing, emotions (anger, primarily), music, books and ballet. I’m no longer comfortable with feeling angry, formerly my primary modus operandi. Sometimes things stand the test of time; my preferences in books and music have changed little over the course of a decade.
One of the bolder ways to gauge my own evolution is to revisit relationships which have gone by the wayside. I had a falling out with Aubrie, our similarity got the best of us. The same similarity which brought me comfort and reality when I was on another planet of psychosis. The magic in rekindling a relationship is really apparent when change is evident, but has developed into a benefit.
It’s not ridiculous to believe that a couple of young, frequently unbalanced females could wane and wax in an ability to get along, it should actually come as a surprise to no one. Still, it’s nice to return to what you once knew, and what once knew you.
(Source: aubriepository, via transmissive)
