Dog Bite

My dog bit me.

My gentle dog has changed. He's old, and a bit senile. He isn't the loving animal he was a few months ago. He lunged at me so fast I couldn't escape.

I know it is time for him to go. I don't want to accept that.

That was two weeks ago. My hand still throbs. I had surgery  that left an open wound. I have to clean and pack it every day. I'm taking two antibiotics (so much for the belief that a dog's mouth is clean!). The skin is peeling on my injured hand, much like a sunburn. I can't go back to pool therapy until it heals.

The open heart surgery was a piece of cake compared to this.

I haven't had my nails done in weeks. I haven't been able to work.

I try to limit the pain pills. The Vicodin didn't do as much as the Tylenol/aspirin concoction I've resorted to, but Tylenol makes me sleepy. 

I sleep a lot. When I sleep, I don't think about losing my Rocco. I don't hurt. The land of dreams is a peaceful one.

I want to spend my days being cradled like a child cuddles her favorite teddy bear. I don't want to think right now.

The past year has been in the top five of the worst years ever. It hasn't been all bad, but it certainly has been a test of my faith, and also a test of my stamina. I know some of it is Satan's way of challenging me. I don't claim to be the good person that Job was, but I understand the story better now.

I don't mean to whine, but I had to get it out before the frustration kills me. 

There are days when I see someone much more seriously ill than I am. A  young friend, only 36, lost her husband just last week. Another has worn a heart monitor for weeks. Still another has cancer, or Parkinson's or Alzheimer's. I am really very lucky.

When I meditate and pray today, I need to do it with a new attitude.

Thanks for listening.