Sorry, guys, this isn't going to be a happy post about ponies.

But, ultimately, this is what it boils down to:  we decided to bring assorted predators into our house and call them our family and make it our home.  Predators.  Animals with a high prey drive, except maybe for Lizzie Borden, who would rather cuddle than play.  But every time we play with the laser or the fish on the string toy or toss a ball for Savannah or Scarlette to chase and retrieve, we're tapping into that instinctive hunter thing and calling it a game to make it cutesy.  I mean, the dogs' toys fucking squeak.  What else squeaks when you squeeze it?

My husband keeps telling me that he misses her and I have to let him grieve, just like I have to let myself.  Like by writing this.

We spend little snippets of time, frequently, reminiscing about her.  About her sproing.  And how she ate breakfast with him every morning.  How she never figured out how to retract her claws when kneading us.  How she was the fastest, which I never really thought she was faster than Lili, but it's an honor I'll give her posthumously, which is also disgustingly bittersweet because she wasn't fast enough.

I'm having a hard time with forgiveness.  The dogs don't understand.  I locked them away from the rest of the house for the first day.  It's the first time since they've been mine that we've been in the same building, but not sleeping in the same room.  I didn't let them back in until bedtime last night and the entire walk from the laundry room to our bedroom was a steady progression.  Sit.  Stay.  Walk ten feet and come.  At one point, I prolonged the sit to a lay and Achilles came up and wrapped himself around Savannah and I damn near lost it.

We've got an appointment with our veterinarian on Saturday.  The dogs need routine things, but I also want to discuss what happened, maybe consider pharmaceuticals for Scarlette because I know she was the instigator.

It just hasn't been an easy couple of days.  I appreciate all of the condolences.