Why have I been MIA? This will explain a lot. Take note though. If you're the sensitive type. You might want to steer away from reading this.

This past Saturday there was a hellacious, ungodly storm here. And for about an hour it squatted right over the house. It took out the power early on. Not even a flicker. Just outright cut it. And with the power, so goes communication since the phone is tied in through the cable modem.

With no power to work with and natural light too low to do anything of value, I took to doing what I tend to do when I can’t busy myself. I paced. And the family dog of 13 years, already nervous and fearful, followed me as I stalked from room to room. The lightning striking far too close for comfort. The yard temporary flooding from the rainfall. The thunder crashing down right on top of us. The heat and the humidity oozing in despite the occasional breeze from the storm.

Finally I flopped down on the coach across the room from my father. Our dog Bootsie, seemingly slightly more contented that I wasn’t going to disappear or burst out to fight the storm, finally detached herself from following me and clicked into the hallway panting heavily. A huge strike of lightning hit nearby. Lighting up the house. My dad called for her to come back since he wanted to attempted to keep her calm during the storm. She had a long history of being nervous of servere storms. This was followed by a click click thud as her toenails fell on hardwood floors and then she took the single step down into the laundry room wrong and it sounded like she fell.

My father, a large Italian man nearing 80, with a bad back, even worse knees, and a disgruntled case of grout, got out of his chair as quickly as he could to see if she was okay. I figured she had just tripped as she was wont to do. Her back legs aren’t what they use to be and the hardwood floors and the ceramic kitchen floors give her problems with traction.

I heard “Boots, Bootsie come on girl. Get up. Boots? Are you okay? Oh god Boots don’t do this to me please get up.” Then a heavy silence. Then a pained “Danny!” as my father called for me. I was already in the process of leaping up to see what was wrong before then. What I found was my tall proud, often sited as intimidating father, hunched as much as he could, down on one knee. Both his hand trying to hold up our aging walker hound’s head. Her tail wagging but her legs splayed out, the rest of her stiff.

My father started to cry knowing something was desperately wrong. He started babbling about stroke, and heart attack, that the storm was killing her as the thunder cracked and the lightning exploded over us. In a moment it seemed she was gone. The tail plopped down. Her breathing stopped. But just for a moment more. Her head came back up and looked at him. And he tried. Oh god he tried so hard to get her to come back to him. Words can not express the utter despair in his voice as he tried to coax the dog that’s spent so much time at his side back to this world. The dog that’s been there to greet him at the door. The dog that’s so fiercely protected him every step of the way. The dog who absolutely refused to do anything but be by his side after he got out of a complex and dangerous knee surgery, and worried about him the entire time he went through the pain and frustration of physical rehab.

He had lost his job, lost his truck, lost his ability to be as mobile as he wants to be, and now his best dog, the dog he had called, baby, Boots, shithead, and bear-bear all in nothing but the most loving ways, the dog he had loved so god damn hard for 13 years, nearly half of my own life, had been taken from him. Possibly by the stress of the storm. He believes it gave her a heart attack. And as he kneeled there over her, petting her. Grieving. The storm began to move on. And all he could say was if she could have held out ten, even five more minutes. It would have all been okay. But she was gone.

I sat there, in the dusky darkness with my father. Attempting to do whatever I could to distract him. To lessen the pain. But I knew it was a futile effort. In a mere few hours my mother would be home and he’d have to break it to her. And while Bootsie wasn’t as determinedly bonded to her as she had been to my father, that’s not to say my mom wasn’t as fiercely attached to Boots.

I’m typing this the morning after the event. Knowing I can’t share what I’m writing with you who are reading this until at least Wednesday as the storm also killed part of my internet modem and I can’t get it replaced until then. I’m writing this in tears. Not entirely out of grief for the loss of a part of the family, but because of the anguish I heard in my father’s voice. And the absolute misery that’s now settled upon this house while I await the help of one of my two best friends in digging a grave. Its thick. Spiced with humidity and grief. In a household that’s been full of so much fear and worry over so many things, for so long already.